A galaxy of tongues, all the revolving systems of story, the moons of Epos,
Vast supernovas of inflection, elusive comets of connotation,
Unmoved sounds of words pushing back and forth against the universe.
Tongue in ear to ground and tongue in cheek to jowl, tongues of fire and ice,
These and an infinite shelf of Caesars, Chief Seattles, scarecrows, saints –
Luminous nights above open fields of science and art; arcana and minutiae
Providing the workbook of life’s scintilla I will never count enough.
Let each volume come down written, plummet to earth by its own accord,
Fall in my lap and flash open in a sudden breeze to my own name
And let each page be read thoroughly of its life, to its end, a burnt leaf,
A platted palm of ash waiting for wind to take it in a gentle winged hand
Waiting for memory’s fire to extinguish itself in gutters and marginalia –
Glosses blaze each page’s strict squared edge in searing amber lines,
A sunset smoldering gold through an angry storm front, a fuse spelling out
The bristling tinsel of sound, spitting sparks toward its final syllabic blow…
In the silence and the loss of chronicle, in the long chapters of sleep,
In the silence and the loss of eclectic gods to apocalypse and colophon
In the wind turning pages of a book forgotten in the grass,
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