Following

'Easy now.' Easy, now there is nothing
younger than us, and we so close to age,
not tempered yet, but temperate, here
and to learn. If our blood rises,
the sun rises despite. It should be easy now.

The blood bickers. Our words are cool,
compressed. Older than our blood
we know nothing, save that we are
older than blood. We are hard now,
hard masters of our task, our selves vanishing

nowhere. Nowhere to be but here.
Ourselves. Younger. Still.


three poems from a sequence called
Unwritten Histories



BUZZARDS
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