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Poem

The day presents a journey, waiting to begin,
a font of wisdom in a strange new land,
each personage a soul to take apart,
although one never  knew those traveler delights;
the things to love,
the mystery to probe--
that vague excitement beating,
beating in a viscous river, not the heart,
but deeper rumbling, forcing through
and past denial,  echos of a distant consciousness
suspended in time's ether.

It is as art in powdered fragment,
crushed between the feet of desperation
as a history is wiped away; as in Iraq,
concentric blips of insight
clamor still, though now in whisper...
that dissecting souls is hazardous,
transforming, alien.

One soul
that would not breathe again,
that would not echo,
offers up its own creation--
poverty that we might not have known.
What was that beating?
More than history is gone.
Was it a sigh retreating
when the blackness won?
                   ~

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