zafusy

rivers away like Sanskrit
under your brow’s
shelf you hadn’t guessed

“apple,” “path,” “father”
encrusted
on the ancient drawn bow

unspeakable, spoken
child tongue of dreams
scratches you on glass, must be

why the effort tires my bones
in sleep, to awake miles away
asking what mineral knuckle

made the shapes below breath
and loyally scrapes the adamant
to facets, even as I try to toss it away

a die for others to play with
a sheep’s knee-bone
has pollen, has prayers

W.B. Keckler

View all poems by W.B. Keckler