280.
Flute in the nineteenth century the
phone is ringing
yes I am guilty of everything
all I did all I do was this
birds walking on the roof just like
the French poem
but the sea is very far
one arm of it though strikes through
the land
the River North into a different skin
as far as a ship can sail against the
grain
for this is a wooden world and I am
wooden too
no one hears the suffering of trees
so caught up with using them leaf shade
and timber
and these are my leaves I leave for
you.
281.
Under the tunic the wound begins to
bleed
losing the city was worth it we get
to find it again
we had to set the image free
with blood I mark crisscross on this
stone
nearby an altar chiseled by no iron
defiled only by a word it speaks
through my palms the rock talks up my
arms
this was the first stone in the world
jihad against the unbelieving
emptiness
fight for the vibrant hollow of the
spacious mind
blood was meant to be the secret ink
writing the sutra of reality deep
inside your frame.
