Thursday, November 01, 2007


White paper morning--crispy shavings of a backlit moon
I find myself praying in sign language

Newly deaf; newly mute—other senses not yet adjusted to compensate

I am boorish—spitting crude assertions from published works onto awkward, stumbling prayer; muddling as though my vesture is sepulcher

—I’m glad to go down, to burrow deep allowing waters to close over;
not sure when the moon will change again and allow me up.

Oh sweet, dark, change--husky sheath and cosseted
Dry and cool, I do the work of life.

I am hidden, in my own mind, at least.
Protected by the confidence that things change—things always change

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