Once more we must learn to accept
in our dark solitude
the little life offers—starved shadows
of a winter sun, the idea of fire
where there is none, & yes,
even illness, the white panther
pacing its cage. Last night, we woke
in the Cinema of the Blind
to dream of pure volition—
the red Indian wish to go whenever we go
as the flying horses vanish
into mist & time.
Cradled by our fall, we cried,
"Only what is born lives!"
O, stolen keys to forgotten doors,
the true mystery is how we got here.
Failed thieves of fire,
kleptomaniacs of light,
with our ashgray plumage, clipped wings
a coal-seller's jackdaw,
prayer, for us, is a psychic
talking in colors to crows, & faith,
the black rainbow, outstretched in darkness.