The Intoned Discourses
Once, upon a bed of clay,
A famed conjurer shed his lore
To all who hung on all his stay;
So burst the catch on time’s first door.
Twice, on a floor of straw,
A star shone through meek stable walls
And bathed the month, indebted, in awe
Dissolving dreams in kindling stalls.
Many the hour, on a mat of rush,
Words washed over prone on rude witness
And damaged the news that societies
The shadows clash.
in the silence
like a staircase
in an abandoned home.
Never will the quenched still life return
to the inane black hole
of Freud-and-lief it used to be,
with the 800-pound gorilla
in the next upbeat