Palimpsests, 3
...but I can't, can't spit
through the dusty mouth that
calls me home:
heap of hunky rubble
rampantly remembering how to
escape
from bluing flames
that speak to me
of sweet retreat
in tongues.
I miss that feeling
where heavy spark
tickles not
my neck's nape:
fancier
cut down
into
smaller,
and smaller
than the seed I was
to begin with.
Gravely, I wait
next to even dustier
tombs--
for centuries,
for one of You to
find in one of us:
A god Divine!
Most wanted Treasure--
wrapped in veins of
golden Praise, before
one Mountain's splendor
poured into me--
and I exchanged--
my vanities
for peace.
***
through the dusty mouth that
calls me home:
heap of hunky rubble
rampantly remembering how to
escape
from bluing flames
that speak to me
of sweet retreat
in tongues.
I miss that feeling
where heavy spark
tickles not
my neck's nape:
fancier
cut down
into
smaller,
and smaller
than the seed I was
to begin with.
Gravely, I wait
next to even dustier
tombs--
for centuries,
for one of You to
find in one of us:
A god Divine!
Most wanted Treasure--
wrapped in veins of
golden Praise, before
one Mountain's splendor
poured into me--
and I exchanged--
my vanities
for peace.
***
Looking for a poet to read at your next event? Fellow poet clinging to the debris of rare words drifting throughout the outer space of everything else? Lit. journal editor looking to vet your candidate? I'd be happy to hear from each of you.