It seems the jars
of earth
are cracked.
It seems the parts
must drift.
It seems that this
the Silent lack —
the will to will
a fall apart.
It seems
the seams
must fall
in parts
and drift
to earth
to rest
apart.
The posts
will rise,
the stone
will crack.
Fondness
will plunge
in silence.
With this, a clasp,
(‘neath obscene stacks)
the facts are trapped.
And, as preempted
hands are kempt,
the past all see —
and, hating, need.
Hands are trapped
between the clacking.
Brackets seen,
obscene he’s stacking
facts and round
the present wrapped
a fold with this,
the past with that.
And, as to all they’d
yet to see,
an asp to slake
the pupil’s need.
I went for broke
(Full Stop),
I kissed your
gnosis…
It grows, in truth,
and soon
opposes
the lowered knee,
the hand a
ring proposes.
There are seams beneath
your dreams and each
meanders toward
the light you seek.
Exquisite taste
and tender touch
won’t follow where
they fray.
The stitch surrounds
your faith.
Stakes to stave away
what hearts must crave,
& pence to pave
their earthen ways.
They menaced when
her lips forbade,
a chalice shattered
every other day.
Until the fool supped;
cut-ups, pratfalls
softened by the cup —
His words were grace.
You can gang your own gate
in ways that surge
unbounded by all weight.
A practiced flow,
prismatic in its wake.
Gone.
Abroad we speak,
Abroad we say
the hopes we make.
Mandalas on
your Vanity
must vanish
as you age.
As Fractals chase
your innocence,
the Spirals swarm
with rage.
But when each
Compass pin
has spun
beyond your
current arc,
the Ring will gently
gather in
the wand’rings
of your heart.
Beneath the
spire a shining
conflict, a castle
cracking principle.
Our sister, an
anagram — a shell
of eternity, a laughing
sprite remade.
The forking
paths, the ink-
burned fingers. Devotions.
Wistful play.
Feste's Lute 