the longevity of

poesy is in

its listening, not

the human hand

steadfast, grasping

pen and presses

when just

10,000 years

of sun would fade

away the letters

stamped on pages

until they fluttered

white as snow

in the rays.

now, the earth is

cold calling

in respiratory ages

mountains rise

and falling like the

breaths of sleep

in rock.

mother time's

hand feels a dot of

braille in her sweeping

forward: the names

of ancestral strength,

another, little babylon.

the music box of

universes rings for

a few seconds, the theme

of love sings forever

under our today's

encounter of her.

if all my words are

dust inside a

cup

on the sill

which shares

what's settled

there

depth forgotten,

oh, to be rinsed

out and filled

with liquid

to know my

shape

will disappear

inside the theme

of thirst

with nothing

to remember

save the taste

of water.

we'd call a tree a fool

who'd give leaf to

january, even if

she spoke a word

of warmth ( a day

or two) or put on

the scent before rain

as perfume;

no thought, but

arms steadier

than a clock's,

and hope sleeps

in memory rings,

those remnants of

last springs and

summer saps.

but who waits, who

has mind and heart?

reason can not uproot

the earth's bent

or the gait she walks,

unconvinced, set in

her ways. the art

of it is lost in

the scale of days,

swallows, syllables

dots along supposed

clocks we wrote

to be unfailing.

there are fronts, but

the truth remains

slow, unwinding

rhythmic winds

of change and

the unchanging.

to know all

is

to

drop

[both]

worldy gloss +

earthy dirt

off

our frames

to

untie

redraw

unclaim

any plot or

petty object

to

fall

into

you/i

youi

itall