Hecatomb Six
Love rises east
daily, though we fail
it. We are loved and may
love, yet fail it, imbued as
we be in trouble and love.
South, truth. Away in foreign
parts facetiously called home shines
truth I miss, work that won’t
condemn me, peaks where
knowing is.
Language lies
west. I always wanted more
west. Image was for once not
enough. Actual west and its names!
I thought I was from
there.
Death, or questions, are to the north.
What can a guy do here but
wonder and perish? (This is
perplexity, not awe, and impatience,
no quest.)
Page(s) 153
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