The dank, black earth,
an aviary, the slate wiped
clean, all clenched in the vice.
On them nicks and scratches
and crevices are dug,
and across their faces the
mark is written, a cue card,
indexed for future reference.
The mark is the Latin docemur –
“we are taught.” The storm is my
teacher, spiraling in its circular
reasoning, gathering its disciples,
speaking in time with the
thunder so no one may hear.
It has taught me one lesson,
a chapter alone, gathered
by my pacing and its
tearing a hole in the wooden floor.
The lesson is this:
death is becoming oneself.
To S.
No comments:
Post a Comment