Parable of the Cypress Cone, Figs, Gravel

Parable of the Cypress Cone, the Figs and the Gravel The gravel allows no footprints on the ridge road of mountain Above a widespread ocean amongst manzanita, sage, cypress Where limbs lift along its slope where road ends, gravel to dirt Distant bird in silhouette onto night soars affluent circles        Sitting a long time, into sunset cold, finished with my long walk Where the gravel, where the bird, where limbs, slope, ridge Ground littered with cypress cones—closed until fire comes Cone to my upper lip, me and your breath of God Ignore me, Father, bury your ears in disputed deserts Deny me your oceanic eyes, that once washed me Make me to walk the hot coals of your teeth, drown me In the subterfuge of your tongue, lodge me In the minx anger of your furrowed brow, strangle me Of breath by your bold memory, crashing your curling Blame as waves against the balustrade of my calm Suck the blood from my heart by the vacuum of yours You have cursed away my figs.  I have screamed down the rest Through the years, for the maggots, under a drunken sun Once heavy with figs, my branch:  Waiting on the ground Full of plump, giving fruit.  Now, on the other side of storm My branch:  Sapless sticks, clean of fruit, asking the sky Wishing to sleep again on the slope under a blanket of cypress Where squeezing a resolute cone while bird aloft, you and I Where the walk ends, cold and ocean close, and gravel is silent