Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Clasp the roaming wind . . .

Clasp the roaming wind, bend
its sinews to the east; it is not
its destiny to
sip the sop of Sisyphus . . .

Clasp the wind –
tease its veins . . . its flow,
towards the hearth where
the embers fail.

Ferry the cumulus;
wind-hinged vats of black milk –
storm cloud-blobs, which beat
their drip-drip-drip;

drops distilled from ashes
of a cremated creed . . .

And the wind goads the clouds
to balsam,

to knead,

immortal plumes from the ashes . . .

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