THOMAS
I came across a
wandering consciousness
attenuated, stretched thin,
tight as
a bowstring
wanting to sing like
an angel but
with a mouth full
of hourglass sand
and him in the desert
burned dry by drought
and yet
by spiritual fire
a pilgrim, seer to
the core
shaman even
yet dressed so dapper
as if in tiny thrall
to the demand of the pristine
these figures of balance
first the thunder
(and who
can do it better?)
and then
the softness, whispers,
soft rasping like
abrasive snakeskin
rattler
from that
ever expanding continent
where you
were born
which you duly renounced
somewhat on faith, also
perhaps a degree
of calculation
and love
you for it
how could they fail to
and so we met
you
at that moment
though already
the greatest of us all
one I knew
only most
vaguely
finding you here
walking
somewhere, if not
entirely linear
clear
in destination
shadowed by
something ghostly yet
incredibly present
and me
there amazed, so in need
of this inspiration, this
conjunction
only now
at last
able to see what
it all did mean.
poems 2 die for 