There goes the greater still –

humming, possessed in the bathing wing,

fire feathered with the wake of wind

and the curling

inner dream -

it is placed safe, the tired will

and the written vein, and  powered palm –

a painted cave wall of us all –

complete in the things we say.

 

The things we say

hum in the quiet taken, looped

with that we don’t,  ribboned, positioned,

silk laps of time,

and cross each human with a condition,

switch each on,

hung on the rescued, needled clutch

of love

 

and maybe there is a moment

that could be forever,

existing in the things we say –

a skeleton of words written in the mist,

a matter of the Mandala's itch,

bewitched with every born question.