I stand at half-mast, naked.
A rock ricochets 'round this empty cask,
telling secrets buried for centuries.
I know what I must do. The time has come
to chisel the task, give it a name and
mount it.
Heroics, a thing of the past, gather dust
in old picture books. This journey, grey
and quiet, will be common and of a
glorious lackluster.
Listen. The wind breaks on the lonely
ledge where true seekers dwell.
That inner place of such delicate suspension,
so acutely alive--a curse at times--makes
itself known.
Like water, fluid, reflexive, filled with itself,
it must be tuned to perfection. An angel on
the head of a pin would understand the
precise, mathematical exactitude of the
ledge.
That platinum attitude of perfect tone,
holding its place on this dark globe amidst
such buffeting and outcry, demands
constant, eternal refinement.
Like a T-rex balanced on a silver
thread, it tries to be holy. And yet,
and yet; it remains, constant, there,
held by one pure note.
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