WHEN I COULD WALK NO MORE, I

stopped

at last

spat

on dust

and rested

 

From long walking

I was light as

soul

or soul and old raiment

glowing

through holes

like a waking house

 

 

On broad stone

holding

stone

 

I hold there still

I hold here

thinner by the year, yet

would you guess

less delicate, better?

This, and this also

is so

 

I speak

as no poet, no

shambling man, la-

menting desert’s

dry

and eye-long sand

 

I speak as

I am

a worn traveler, only

glowing

worn

from going

 

This be-

lieve

 

I’ll rest

till well; and well step

on

 

There’s more to my song than this

 

                                                                             

From Mavor’s Bones, and unpublished Gothic novel-in-poems.

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