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
     to
the horror of

summer, my dying song      to the brazen
hill belongs

silence, whetted and pure      with an
agile distance

as comfort –

ii behoovements

1.
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?

2.
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