He gathers himself
grieving, still, in this
body, the line
down through generations.
It is not ignorance that kept
him from the doctor, but bones
ringing with memory
rippling years
shrugs
a mirror is not
the other’s gaze.
Allude to Rome.
Consider Damascus.
Line up your sentinels
along the Empire waste-line of lives.
But there is sun in the morning
and he knows the taste of spruce
tip and sap both in season.
Old-fashioned ways.
And there are wings
whistling just beyond the reach
of things man made, but never
outside the circle of relations.
So he gathers himself, singing.
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So difficult to put into words all that this stirs in me…. Thank you
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