at night the pale grey

earth holds its breath for

me. it sleeps with me

and begs for me. we grace

each other like dew

and sorrow, without words.

about the moon our

brother’s aura steals

and wakes

the mystery of our parable.

harken to the darkness

so that you come to the dawn;

pride, my vagabond imposter

languishes with identity.

soon in the mist of present

locked environs blows

the distant whistle white

proximity. leagues mean nought but

in demension only potent.

nigh comes help

on the mountains. can i

shake but tremble off

my worries. pray fo rme,

oh vessel wailing. the ways

of birds, the walking trance

of pitch and fall and

stand. we are they who throw

ourselves cheaply and

majestically foreward

upon the stiffness of our legs,

the shadow

of our memories. my historian

will be the dust of

my bones and the breath of

the grass that i feed

and the tears of my children,

my loves, lines, impressions,

scandelous hopes

for hope and peace in the

tide and the night of

my soul; here is the drowning

of worrie. i name your giving

with authority. wait long at

the snow-gate, for the dawn

will be patient and i will be

waiting. the desert will wake

for our crossing.