ashes cover my face
wet mask
I said I would be prince
twenty years ago now
when every word I spoke sounded like music to me
a young tree never seen a storm
what is the word for the cracked trunk in the man
watching the sky tumble past its breach
where the wild dimples curl against the black rain
the temple
even after all the blocks are destroyed
and its history changed
watches the patter of feet
over its grass
watches the Bear turn over its shoulders
Metsavana woodfather
barkens my shins
wilts my face into the writing of the whorl
