12-18-06

I could have forged my doubt into art;
fire and coal and burning
and…

hammering.
And I could have waved for help
like an intellect
compelled to sell for spirit
-coping wanderer, flame of fire-
forging fortitude;
a long stayed winter of steam
rising for clean…

air. And it was still.

and Abraham’s stars spoke –
their brightness through time
woke my appetite
lost…

Finally,

I am no poet.
I am no god.
I am a slave led into the wilderness.
And I’m glad.

The fire here is brighter.