I have turned this stone
so many times my palm
knows its shape as its own skin,
The blind mute words
scratched in my hand
unnamed behind the black walls,
shapes only the skin can sense
cannot penetrate the mind’s shell.
My mouth an empty echo of itself,
chanting answers to silent
Inner eyes could better see,
could know the sense of these
words, interpret the answer,
could clearly state the questions.
Dressed in burlap rags,
I am running down a muddy path.
Barefoot, pushing a large wheelbarrow.
I am happy, feet high in the air.
A man walks past splashed by mud,
I stop quickly, walk back to apologize
and take up my pilgrimage anew.
My burden is light,
I know where the path is taking me
though there are no signs here,
no vegetation, no landmarks.
At daybreak I arrive
at a precipice overlooking the ocean,
Hands on hips, I survey my panorama,
here I could X a tree.
Strange, in the daylight
the skin rubbed from
my thighs, walking comes
Last night in my sleep
I kissed the critic,
we aren’t such good friends.
Children playing, I climb down
the rocky path and up again.
Today I asked for answers
in my dream.
Got only a shuffle of papers,
small tight print I could
not read, all the clues
on page three,
which was missing.