Wednesday, April 10, 2013




Some work reveals the sign
it was always there
it was always a question of integrity
of friends who were departers
those who marked the night with obsolete names
for receding stars
unknown to the remainders stooping
behind servile doors
celestial in their valediction
inserting their mysterious keys
in locked tangents
and unlocking the sums of all angles
the sum of all hands
The hour of echoes is here


Daedalus in space
turning lost to the final star
heaven-born in a vibration of birth
remembering them, those killed in action
those lost in doorways
and station-to-station bathrooms
absolute, inclined spectators
Of various dawns
Bidden by craziness into
streets full of apparitions and loneliness
driven to charades of daybreak
and reminders of light
Daedalus ecstatic,


If you try to describe the sensation
of diminishing will
you not arrive at the horizon?
Will you fold a map of these signs and
positions into a brief moment
of re-ascension?
Or maybe find a way to a bright circle
a center of assumed luminousness
accompanied in painful alteration
in peril, transposed
and finally left in darkness
at the foot of consequences?
What will happen
if you lose your compass?
Into what wind will you send your prayers?

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