when the sky of the men was solid and slight, and the land offered no more than cracked earth,
the eldest one would summon other-worlds and sing a fable of re-birth –
but in this druid-less place, we may still find solace. we may still pen-down the lifeblood
while the light is still-soft, while the land is still-mud –
and after-wards, in our emerging from a lack of words,
from the blind-sight and the silence of departed birds,
to read out-loud this odyssey into the night
as a piligrimage – as a passage-rite.
therefore in the pencil-placing.
in the act of listening and un-clothing our-selves into nothing…
we wish to dream the scenics
that will cause the verse to burst into phoenix.
we call upon phonemics by which yellow-feathers will,
apparently out of little-more than dead-bones and the old-quill,
rise again to beat in the bare,
in the immense – in the wildness of the air.
Thank-you. To Bamboo, to Keith, to Beth, to Sarah, to all the friends who have encouraged me to write.