A Poem for My Friend

If anyone could lead me to the heart of this world it would be you,

you who sought your forbears’ footprints in a desert

full of tents like sunken sails beneath

an ocean of  stars and

crescent moons.


You packed up our wishes, delicate as folded paper, and took them

far away to hide them in the wishing place, that wall

of stone and sand where travelers’ voices

crash like wandering peals

of thunder.


That wall of clay and soot where the heavy years of our race expend

themselves as prodigal waves, carrying hopes and small

uncountable deaths like so much spume to the

gates of a god whose breath can still

be heard in the echoes of our

distant beginning.


You sought the heart of the world inside you, you found its rhythms

deep within the cavernous spaces beneath your own heart,

where the Fates in their veils spin strands of

silken dusk to mend the quaking

membrane that guards

this world from

the next.


Fey spinsters of chance, they work themselves to the bone, knitting

destinies and fever dreams in your soft holy places,

weaving spells in the chambers

of your soul.


They hum and howl like the winds of the storm that nursed within

its clouds the first sparks of life, sewing verdant flames

to consume this rock and from its ashes

spawn our infinity of trembling

brief forevers.


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