from Celestial Migrations In The Empire ‘Casting Runes Consisting Of The Landscape’


Born a second time on stones, over
grown cold and rough; stunted
self-regarding souls
bare moss hung on the indeterminate
hillside, while above or below, world

Carries on, you wake no longer weightless
unloved, at most a familiar comfort
paralyzed or a ghost unseen; invisible,
deluged by complaints,
groaning over the abyss, its larger unwillingness

To hold onto anything you celebrate,
polishing the bones
of flesh hieroglyphs telling the same
story: casting runes consisting of the landscape,
to witness or map never enough

© Dean J. Baker

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