When years have crunched on well worn paths...
when once were pebbles are kicked as dust
on winding evening roads...
maybe then.
With our pride and greed worn thin,
entwined in hearts grown long from roaming,
we will parch with burn and flux,
we will breathe wise light like mystic gods
who step from town to glade....
We will mine our breasts to spill our spoil
in fountains made of time....
We will course like rain down cracking lips
that speak a curse called sin....
That urgently pray toward silent God
for hope in judgement's skin....
(children who mourn in a market dark,
which the world,
as it turns,
now is.)
no place for maybe's hollow head
to lay forgetful sleep....
the time for then is pregnant now...
If you care to hear...
she weeps...
for possibility ringing loud...
for heads grown dull
and madding crowds...
for nakedness shamed by funeral shrouds...
she falls at the guiltiest feet
(to wash)
she falls at the guiltiest feet...










C
24 old applause
