a little waiting, yes,
and waiting out
the pristine smoke and
rumblings of domestic life
we imagine
looking out on old rocks
and fashionings
how, we think, they
must or must not have
loved as we do
greeted or dreaded
the morning sun
collectively attuned
to things to be done
making all the same
bad or good guesses
what to do
what was to come
as small and finely
calibrated as
death and birth
or the birth of longing
its prompt attendant loss
anticipated, predicated
on past devastations
or tales of them
or the organized chaos
of the seer, one
driven from the village
we envision there
where nothing much is left
though much was done
now that we know less or more
of the grinding implications
of time
the clock in the cell
that clocks going forth
just as well as laying it down
the sturdy fencing of
the clattering gears
of industry
with its well-lit sad places
and the slaves we make
of ourselves
or the seers sent
down a dark well to
retrieve a thing of light
how they are punished
even if they relent
there are yet disasters to add
to the blame cast on them
just for saying true things
no one will hear

. . .

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