Messages from Witnesses
Witnesses abound, like hidden treasures under
The earth —and like common vices upon the
Face of the earth, contorted with the hammer-stare
Of frozen shafts of light descending fast on a
Warmless street.
Good and bad are linked with the chain-graft
Of our wobbling times —a stinking, old robe
Turned inside-out.
The smell of stale beer creases the raised brows.
Witnesses grieve ceaselessly.
And from their hidden abodes —
Mere rubbles among fallen clumps of oiled hair —
And with eyes glazed and searching,
They see noses run alongside weeping eyes.
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