Flesh and Ink

I grow weary of lines
Drawn by human hand
Turned in and out
And away
And against
I am tired of pencil-lines

Speak to me, love
Plant words with earth and water
In my echo-chamber chest
Words grow like bones
The woven frame
The inner chasm

Weaver, hunter,
Sower, reaper,
Man of war,
And master-maker,

I tire of these pencil-lines

The Oracles of St-Etienne

Christe, eleison, Christe, eleison,
Eleison, eleison

All creatures have roots,
Bird and beast, stock and stone,
All living things have roots

You have heard the names
In passing,
Whispered through the tall grass,
Whispered through human lips,
Whispered through lips to ears

Lonesome and loving,
With pain in the chest,
Heard the names
In passing

Be kind to each other, babies,
Be kind—little children,
Love one another,
We are all the people we have
And we must make each other last

You may have felt the pinch of fingers,
But be unafraid: all hands are not
Raised in anger
Behold the mender,
Made unmade

Kyrie, eleison
Eleison, eleison

Kyrie, eleison, eleison
Kyrie

The Oracles of Fitzgibbon

You have lingered
overlong in this
abstracted air
portrait of a man in freefall

Linger, linger
little finger

Spoon and knife
croon to wife
shatter, clatter
pitter-patter

The tides ran their fingers
through your tangled hair
lady of the deep
gravity in silver light

Stronger, stronger
rumormonger

Plate and chain and iron bands
hungry men have teeth and hands

Rubber hissing on the street
abrasive to my infant sleep

Harm, charm
car alarm

Goodnight, my dear,
I love to hear
Your voice at night
By firelight


Behold the pride
of the edifice
at the moment of collapse

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