Getting famous

with wilderness;

judgement's feather-light

body-blows, cascade

through vertigo.

 

Too old to start

afresh, AGAIN;

swimming in the scorched

starlight, of youth, eyes

unblemished, bright.

 

This is all fair,

where would it be

otherwise? How could

the cymbals clang warped

for us, weak heroes?

 

Or soften, as fruit

rich, nourishing,

the dawn breeze backwards

voiding fouls, errors,

mournful for dust?