December 26, 2008
IT IS NOT the isles, nor ancient
Greece, not a singer, the singer
of my youth, no this is not.
This does not need then, nor
them, nor it, this is hallowed
ground, the realm of sagas
always misnamed. This is
the indrawn breath a flood
of air that saturates the cells
the expansion of their apertures
a softening allowance of being,
before or as it becomes flesh.