It is the king's laughter, here and now,
it is the king's holy gizzards by which I clamber
so clumsy and so loudly mute,
stumbling upon feet of miles of sentence;
the last mile
the HOLY mile.
I miss my challengers,
I miss the dust between us
of which we are too busy to speak.
And so I wait,
with darkened pencil and sharpened room
and capture all of the deep fates
with looms a-spinnin' and wrapped
to beg some grace to come lurching to my bedside.
Naught else to do;
wrapped in papyrus,
Ah, my pyramid, my unfair,
my long journey to be unhurt and unafraid
and I am left
October sometime, 2014