The Blue Book


Through all the signs, still
at sunset
that old temple comes back,
a word that trips off the tongue
with such truth
it took years just to learn
how to say it.

Let alone invite back
an old spirit wearing a desert
for his skin, and set free the souls
in this carved and tangled loop,
open to our stars.

Long ago, I lay there,
on the platform looking up,
and now I sit in silence
on the rocky sand,
my eyes closed, still before
the million sparks swirling
in a changing wind,
watching raw blue fire form
one last fugue to the forgettable,
unforgotten people,
waiting for their old moon
to sing the music of flames
and fly forever across
the Great Face they so love,
fierce guardians of a grace
that was given here,
hundreds of years after
we finally came home.


I follow

good conversation