#10

Become a beacon to spirit-sounds. Receive, from God, his grandeur. If you walk, as you did then, down Western tracks, let them lead you to the clearing. Write poems. "My father is as quiet as a winter morning." "The voices bloom, which once I thought were dead." Be Diana's child. Mezereon in bunches. Find your pleasure in the throb of horse flesh twixt your thighs. And bleed with the squack of birds at dawn.

Whole worlds lost to the mediate. Memory. A tourist's picture book. The lure of the making barring the passage of strangers. Even Christ now, no longer his visit in the pasture. What Bill said. Now. Instead. And later. All this given to another, who will leave it in turn. The wheel stripping death of its flavor. Your children some day like rags. A spring cleaning that will resent you.

Let's make a vow. I will collect from your wake what you have discarded for the sake of movement. I will become the you that you aufhebt, your very conquering of loss. I will sing your songs, and write your past, as you take your place in the shine of sun. In Eastern lands, ever familiar. Where you cry, in your solitude, for childhood. I will murder you, each night as you sleep, a sacrifice for your sake, and paint pictures with your blood of nothing. They will find you each day dismembered. I will give you back to time.