morning song

mourning tools are not set by
      stone     they are chosen by
      the howl & sore

of wind     mourning sages do not
       rise with sun-shriek nor
       tire at sun-sink

mourning song is neither presaged
       nor pretooled     it is worn
       by age & tear 

the burden of yesterday’s sleep

Twenty warriors in front -
       words as knives     sharp
       as the teeth of

Innocent windhowls carrying
       the burden of yesterday’s
       sleep    twenty

Wars fought on parched tongues
        longing for song    each
        worn as cloudcover, unsung -

We hum the age of syllable

We hum the age of syllable we cuff
      the rims bind the seals arch the
      soles & wait     we hum the age
      of syllable & read our palms stoke

Our days fill our heeds with wish
      we calm our bleeds sun our soothes
      & hum the age of syllable    we
      cuff the rims blanch its cores we

Hum the age of syllable      & wait -