Were You Young Again
Child, were you young again,
I would bring you bread and jam,
the broken grove, and the bitter land.
A pentacle to scuff the sand.
A year of fire to melt your symbols.
A length of rope to bait the wolf.
Down by the weighted, murky river,
is the way that is known by the ram
and the dove and the Yeatsian fiddle.
The winds that blow through the room
of the soul and into the stem
of the cold, reptilian bone, disturb
and console, disturb and console.
This is no whim. This is not a riddle.
We are a new, and an ancient people.
There’s Aways More
There’s always more
than meets the eye
or settles in
and alters the core,
to a march
or a skip,
or a civil war,
a stream of poems
and the tenth floor,
or the slip of the sleeve,
and stage four.