We put it all down
drifting lightly over the faceless,
those days between joy and doom.
Looms the write
seeking to thread a life
through a needle.
The print not ink, nor blood,
but only a lip-reading
of the hours.
Events are picked
like ripe or dangerous fruit,
the dull stays stored
in moldering boxes, or nailed
into the escutcheons of rusting locks.
The specificity of a moment
is given a greater gravity than it ever had,
yet we put it down
fasten it to strings of sounds
and then extoll or deplore
once more.
The unhistorical museum
Misses thousands of years
Its grazier-rich sole reference
To peoples whose breath has lingered millenniums
Is a back-of-drawer
Cast-away reference
To the problem.
In square-framed wall hangings
Escutcheons of capital dominate
Captured views of time-challenging
Individual property-retaining ramparts
Outside maggies and their feathered foes
Still remember
How to circle.