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.