Old Ways
Brown coin
token of my craft
remember when fortune telling was in the blank
spaces between the stars and the flight of roving
birds blind to the ground swells on the map
the entrails housing kidneys spoke dark
inarticulate marvels
their inches of flesh were rich
as calculus of sand
we once traced figures on tortoise shells
with ice and burned the stone
fat out of dragon bones
all to deliver winter rites
yet these secrets piled with the yarrow
stalks and tumbled into chance lines
clean of blood or art
but corrupted by memory
so that even you
brown coin
can draw patterns
from falling
 germanicus2 · Tue Apr 08, 2008 @ 12:33am · 2 Comments |
