Marble heart, oaken bone -
in death’s head profile,
Sum ibi - the cenotaphic
stature of the city, all
adrift in the ocean of
mumbled smudging light.
A picaresque foot out
my door - a slight step
of ebullient will - and I
breathe draught air again.
Light that blurs sight
doesn’t temper true blood.
The craft of heart and bone
alive even in this Hephaestian
husk, the street beats in my
stride-time. A wroughter of
world-to-word - I crow
this canticle of common life.
I wrote this in spring 2012.
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