who are tortured by the smallest web.
we who pack daylight in cardboard boxes,
who follow the trail of the broom and blade.
we who dance on the ancients’ graves,
who tear splinters from the fingers of god.
who destroy kingdoms of sticks and stone,
as if we dared to be the wind!
who bury our children with drunken desire,
and cling like leaves to their memories…
we who eat the fingers of the forgotten old,
and pray with footprints on abandoned porches.
ah, but all is not lost, or perhaps it is…
one never knows that which is not lost!
while joy falls like winter rain,
and love whispers in the ears of silence.
as the branches gather in forgotten nooks,
and steam rises from prayers of dung.
squirrels gather over brandy and broth,
stoned on busy and thoughtless heat.
your hand or mine, there be nothing forbidden…
where there are no maps desire leads!
i have no regrets, all is spent.
the curtain is drawn, the window broken.
history a vein on a leaf consumed,
by dirt, as all must be!
i want you, the moon still pulls,
the waves rear and turn with force.
till time is lost, and perhaps beyond,
to the darkness where beginning begins.