falling back into place

as it been so long since last I slapped my palm
flat against the Earth
to measure the effort required
to spin it out of orbit and crack the sun?

most likely.  there are lovers who were unborn
when last I wore that tapestry
as a sacrificial robe.
I taste the stale copper of dried, ancient blood.

when did the poets give up the magic?
when did we leave the weaving to fingers
neither nimble or quick
that stick themselves and call it purging surgery?

we are more than blood, more than the resin
left by drying intimate fluids, crude druids
think that resurrecting ancient faiths
is the same as making new discoveries.

this is the faith of David the King.  the cithara
of Cicero and of Homer.  souls sliced
instead of priced for whatever the crowd throws
as the cock crows and we take pride in denial.


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.