to the other, and painted them the
color of earth. I have left
half empty vessels open, to catch
the condensation as it slips down
my thoughtscreen, too much moisture
from too much dream. I am wary
of dividing my lives, into this and that,
into here or there. This too vague
rage plagues me, internally, I am
sorted thru like dirty laundry...
and still the impulse is felt, from
below my belt and above my belief,
and I strain to define this form
of relief, of which I make my moulds
of clay, tapering feeling into faces
and days, into names and games
and containers for rain. My prayers
fought one another, fought to shelter
the innocent leper that hides inside.
But the peeling sheath, the papier-mache,
has torn to tatters and freely fades,
and my communion, I find, is still
fresh in my mind, exposed to the
storms of the seas of the blind.