a sack of flesh and senses
as a toolkit to explore with
trespass upon all other worlds with
worlds of wonder and of witness
With these tools you make mistakes
human errors /every day/another scratch pad for fleas
These are the counted clocks of pulse and beat
that limit eternity to burial plots/ashes
of fires once seen/are now pilgrimage
where younger feet trespass/in trust
for induced wisdom and wonder
if the passage is worth it.No Fatima,Lourdes-
more bars and Hasek,coffee shops and dog eared paperbacks
We gain our learning from each other-those departed
leave us artifacts but no truths/other wise they would still be here
among the penitents and petitioners,pilgrims and potted poets
whose provisional portents are ignored like weather reports
when you can open the window and see the new sky
for yourselves.
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