Peopling
All is hollow, All is burning.
The wind whispers no names.
It’s in the creaking bones of houses
In the flitting wisps of locks of hair
From deep in our bodies,
and on the tail of every word.
The wind answers to no one.
We wander like fish without gills,
sketching the paths of bees.
Sentient supernovas locked in fleshy wraps
fixing to fade into nothing.
The wind carries one’s shield to the parry,
the flame to its kindling.
It bursts through windows, ringing off walls
howling down hallways, intoned
with the words of those wise of love.
Battered, our hearts of diamond, husked in steel.
We crack like tree limbs in our shadows
unaware of the wisdom of open skies.
The fabric of Mind is the cushion for all bodies,
for weary souls and lonesome planetoids.
There! There the wind calls home!
On the final breath of this fragile life,
and the first gasp of the unknowable death...
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