When the season of mists falls sublime into the laps of skeletons, I trace and retrace like a finger on an engraved tomb the memory of certain fingers wrapped in mine, of footsteps over graves- the death of love signified by a setting sun, unseen through the clouds.
I sit, a gardener of graves, a man with a stone thumb. I am the seldom-seeing eye gripping the bones. I was the marrow, and now I am become a spur.
I do not write enough to be a poet Nor think enough to be a philosopher Nor sing enough to be an angel Nor turn enough to be a cog. I do not exist enough to be myself, Yet am too much to claim my wraith-hood. I am a hole in the air, a thoughtful vacuum.
back. . .