Achilles

Where is home?

This beach, this forsaken tent, replacing memory

With silence?

The priests of our current agony will tell you they know

But they no longer see the red sunsets for what they are.

Did they ever?

Ask them this if you get the chance.  Or not.

Maybe it’s better in the long run

To leave them suspended in their all-knowing disbelief.

Cast the stone in other waves

And see if it sinks or settles on a different shore.

A certain feeling enters you

When the second happens.

The tide rolls up your tongue,

Washes clean your brain

And redirects your fear.

A good day’s work, all in all.

 

If you see a man with a head like a bird

Strolling along the shore

In no hurry,

A relic, possibly an ex-judge,

Preceptor from the shade

Beyond the antique walls

That produce nothing but sorrow,

Avoid him, too.

He loves nothing but the sound of his own

Footsteps scratching across sandy rock,

Rotten with wasted time.

Ugh.

 

Does your arm ache for a good straight piece of wood,

Some nails unbent by bad experience?

Sure it does, and why wouldn’t it?

Working out every day salves the spirit,

Little else.

Use your time better--you have lots of it.

At 6:00, don’t look forward to 8:00, then 10.

It all goes by so fast, and so slowly.

It is happening now.  What is, you ask?

Yes, everything.

 

Now comes moonfrost, clearing the eye.

The head follows.

Run fast, calling out your own name,

Not loudly, not softly, but just the way it sounds. 

The wind is in the seams of light

That bend to your feet,

Streaking ahead

Like dawn.

 

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