Thursday, June 12, 2008

To the Nearly Living

I am summoned from my bed
to the ancient city of the dead

Over the archway
to the doorway
we float upon a myth.
Howling toad called race,
disappear in the assurance of immortality.
Stricken match called consciousness,
cool yourself upon the coals
that this knowledge of our similar teeth
allows us all to eat the same caves.


There are lives awaiting bread
An empty village in the sun
Knowledge has a face
The water takes her time

There is a gift inside your eyes
There is a mirror in the breeze
A quick philosophy to stones
The water takes her time

There is a luster to the earth
And an echo in the vine
There is such envy in the clouds
The water takes her time.