the
pine seed metamorphosis of Sybil behind glass
her
state of being
a
clock foundry
turning
rendered thought
into
matter and states between
thinking
death
be an end
instead
of another beginning
she
mourned mooring herself
in
the landscape of chaos
just
once through
in
the long count
of
hands and mouths
feeding
a thirst
in
the dark
crawling
toward the light
her
belled jar tale
a
whorl conscience
whirled
gnarled into bark
into
being born
reaching
for its own
piece
of the sky
chasing
into
shadows
trailing
Apollo’s ride
she
finds
the
crept
kept
low
ghostly
steps
of
Prometheus’ theft
she
pauses
and
leans East
holding
grains
smiled
sighs
and
exhaled codes
her
time pinched
between
her fingers
as
she lets go
but
remembers why
we
burn with life
she
prays
knees
and palms down
the
West wind says
I
will catch your desires here
and
scatter their carves
through
what weaves
you
thought to braid yourself to
here,
where
the
temple portico
opens, her eyes are closed
there
is smoke rising
from
smudge pots
they
are tickling
the
bottom boughs
of
the pines
on
these sharp hills
above
the sea
each
is thick with cones
and
held secrets
she
says
mine
in each other
where
each of you
never
asks
for
eternal life
but
rather
for
the simple grace
of
an embrace
that
might last
long
enough
to
scent yourselves
into
each other’s rhythms
where
your memory
is
an inexact science
but
your noses know
what
smells
infinity
calls
when
you belong
somewhere
EJR
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