041206

This is for when the last
face sprouts from the aurora
tree, you children out
of time who skate the white
line of the Dead Sea. There
christened by a magnet
in a lead bottle. Say fire
or water. Say broke or
broken. The sheet of time-
past blown far along the floodplain.
The weird children by whom
I'm led, far past the alluvial
forest, past the withered
foundation & the broken churn.
A dome rises from the middle
distance, a door in the rocks
I saw & still see. Never speak
of it; how I was alone.
How those spirits were mine.
I am a spelunker.
There are voices, I don't hear
them. There are figures
in the crux of sight, I cannot
see them. Little by little
the copse of pines is razed,
I will not walk there.
I am tired like a bird.
I eat the word never, walking
until walking becomes me.