my pockets are filled with stones
i have found in the brokenstraw.
in my hair i wear the feathers of a
crow. leaves falling from the trees
make a bed to rest my bones. i offer
god the poverty of my spirit, buddha
satisfies my need for nothing. i have
no stash to feed my belly. there are
no consequences of my past, and i
forgive the trespasses of others. the
stars have not revealed the dark side
of the moon to me. i have no quarrel
with black and white, or the day and
the night. i prefer the delicate to the
unyielding but winter has its place.
every question owns the answer. the
second coming does not excite me
any more than the first or the third.
the road map of my journey is to the
allegheny to gather more stones and
sing my new verse to a red sun that
takes its place behind the horizon
twice a day.