An Old Poem With A New Title

AIR

My water-image whispers back to me:

my curiosity is a well-spring dug

deep by my scanning senses like broad’ning

buckets scooping my tranquil core, my live-

stock’s pulse in the desert drought, my pastor’s

freedom from death in his nomad-journey.

Suddenly, my wind-torn image trembles

like mercury-tears, pulsing like the stars.

My image-strings are now sheared, now revealed.

Free, guilt-free, on the trespassed gate, I feel

the fathom-free air in me. I stand straight

at the threshold of endless gates. My ink

waves carve a laurel crown: my mind-swollen

void curved with light inner breezes, swinging.by