the first writer

new-found

lone-liness

 

is harder to

carry than

 

old

grief,

 

in this house of

scales, full of too-

 

quiet wails and

padded wishes

 

misfiring into

the insidious.

 

the pick-ax of love swings

 

in all directions

in a mother tongue

 

heard but never

deeply known,

 

a script we spend our 

days rewriting for the

 

big

screen.

 

what then shall we die for?

 

four faces, pieces of

time slowly woven:

 

one pyramid eye,

a god voice —

 

a medium, a mode,

a median, a muse —

 

a walk down a broken path

 

under the cedars,

under the stars,

 

the fist of a moon;

this fist in my pocket,

 

in my heart,

 

these

stones.

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