The vagabond spells his age

‘Be humbled
by the touch of the ground
before you may seek
the azure embrace of the sky’

I heard an old soul say,
trying to count all of the leaves
from inside the past, in which he’d lost
the future in time, in time
and time again, as if he could recall
all the roots to the letters of his name

with the solecism of numbers,
cosmic in the totem of life’s
one face of moon, concealing
the wrinkled bark of his mask
in age that circles his girth

and stands him in the mast
that now tastes the spelling sea-
now floods in her fathomless depth

from the becoming mouths of land,

After rain

In the eye of every man who has lost,
and in loss, reclaimed
what had began,
begun in him,

the cataract of a name
and face again

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