<there>

Francis Bacon, Head (1948)

<there>
 </time>
 </space>
 </me>

 <here>
  </cosmos>
  </solar system>
  </earth>
   seeing by destruction
   and creation
   in desert sands
   where the gold
   of setting suns
   on dark east mountains

   spills blood
   <questions>
      </wonder>
      </awe>
      why do I fill space

      born from body's
      rooting need,

      spirit's loneliness
      or obscure light
      of beauty flown
      in an idle glance?
      <passion>
        what is does not remain,
        the song dies in the throat
        of the warbler, the knot
        in the crotch unties
        in the womb
        <i>
         </naked>
         </broken>
         piecing together a scrap
         book of joy and triumph,
         the empty spaces
         reporting who and what
         I never am, where
         the voices of the past
         vie for unity, a piece
         of infinity tasting
         a dying tongue
        </i>
       </passion>
      </questions>
    </here>
</there>

Copyright 2013 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.