The many eyes of a room in tears
has dust for vision
had dust for vision
the past will rest & it will die
(I gave three words to fire; one would’ve been fine)
The many eyes of the world in arms
can it not bear?
will it not bear?
the house is one & it will die
(The crushed seed is very much a nut)
The many eyes of a single eye
the river in sight
the river is sight
the rain is wood & it will die
(Visit sky often, perhaps even more often)
The green is full of this hour of
need trust in the thrust of
giving – at most two mistakes are allowed
The age of the sun is now of
need brown in this burn of
hurt – after two mistakes the count is lost
The loam of the river sinks of
need claim this calm of
void – when you lose count you are free
chance as the beginning of song
there grew in the forest of the possible a word
there grew in the forest of the palpable an act
there grew in the forest of the facile fact
fact as the beginning of wrong
the forest priested, the grief of word
guiled, the hum of sunk roots unhummed & by chance
there grew in the forest of the possible a word –
These wounds do not wish to pray
their fall is counted in distance
stars are kindred
but they have yet to burn –
These wounds have no taste of enemy
their wishdom is lost in distance
stars are kindred
but they have yet to yearn –
These wounds amount to the green of money
their worth is allotted to distance
stars are kindred
but they have yet to earn –
Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 