A silhouette – in the flesh
straight Comanche nose
geometry of man,
of time – now
Tongue of gothic battles
and stanzas of snowdrops
rivers and Julys
speaks with inflections
as subtle as the grazing of eyes…
inside veiled blue light
warmed by a Hunter’s moon
blinding as every sun in eclipse…
a light with weight
stands guard above the ramparts
we’ve built

As the buck treads gentle and firm –
we mimic…
and follow
atop the wall of the dead
surrounding us just the same
while our dissected minds fight
and huddle
for peace

Tracing the paths of their demise
and of our own –
that great fox nipping at our heels
chasing us into these dens
again and again
…winding lines paved in gold leaf
geometry of man
trading our purgatory for theirs

Laughter like the goslings
coasting low, croaking
tongue of direction,
of the season anew
of a first migration…
Clinging to delicate ease
at rest
beneath the tree, fervent
with the heat of creation
(we follow)
The fragile art
of her form, and patois
tongue of history
now