I roam ancient songs

From clarity I sink into a thousand year old
wound      I roam

ancient songs worn out by the day’s garb
you talk only

of the mountain peak      I cannot speak of
the old song from

such heights      the silkworm as my ink I
weave bare threads

To the tribute belongs rain
the horror of

summer, my dying song      to the brazen
hill belongs

silence, whetted and pure      with an
agile distance

as comfort –

ii behoovements

does storm behoove an adjective – cast me out, it
says, with a

door in its mouth, with cash in the bank & with
time cawing

a silent me – does it behoove an adjective? cast me
out, it sweeps

the flawed morning to build adjunctively, as once
the ant did

along with the slope of the riverbed – is it verbose,
this storm?

the hood does not behoove likeness / its treachery
is the broken song

the hood does not become sun / it tried – it was yesterday
I believe – and fell

the hood does not believe in fire / that is lit in solace
before light breaks