sounding 21

tired of waiting he writes
while there’s timeand the white space

to trace the light’s line
from place to place

from all the corners of his mindfind
the dust of all that’s gathered there

the airs of old the failed grace of dreams
dreamt intentions meant

he writes

ascribes to himself the sense of what he says
and tries to sound the source
of what it is awaits

si-ghting 4

the unheard of hearts
the million-fold of murmurings
the untold mouths mothered
mouths full of earth

for ever

who feels for the grass grown to be green
to be blades bent underfoot
to bleed
to forget for a day
where we lay

whose heart heard them then
yours or yours open
to all but the breaths beneath
the endless words the said
and the unsaid of the endless dead

What

if not made for this then what
into the bin with your imperfections
be content to sit
the sun going down
and note from day to day
not one’s the same

the world’s not one bit better
for the pittance it brings
to the beggar’s hand
blind or not
or the lift it’s said to lend
how long
to the low

the words weighed out were best
let lie
to sleep in prayer-less peace
or rest as ever
eyeless in the earth

let the habit go
it’s time to walk away from home
to rise and slowly wander on
where isles abound and sound itself
suffice to say
the what
if not made for this