after Hours –

bursting in Intimate Arrival, these Sensate Beings cohere to

impugn their Deity; theirs is a Misstep, a hallowed

Glance

at an Age-old Custom made Rusty with repair – Idle

hands Divining the Nostradamus of Our Times

to lay Still awhile and Listen; here, in

the darkness, there are no

prayers, only subtle Supplication to Remember Us, we

Held you up when there was no helping hand, we

guided you through Terror

and submissive Worth; We

are the Ancients of this Land, we blow

the flute, we Sound the

drum, we snake

in and out of Survival with our Tangent

ache

of bone and Whistle; who

are you Now,

Errant child with a Wicked Eye? – do

you Remember Us we who

fed you in the wood, nurturing You

in the ministrations of

the Wild?

Will you come Round and search with Us

our patient brothers and Sisters, our friends

given to Oration

and Surmise?

It all lowers its head, this bestial Thing, it

demands to be Fed – You

cannot leave

her at Your doorstep

waiting

for long – She is

the

remittal of Sin, the

blunt

Incision of a Formal Ruse, this

trick for you

a Truth garnered from Long

Observation; we

are You, Child, you who come

to us

with thanks and Hope, your

thin body

wracked with Unsung heart, Long

Heart, You, there

on your Horizon,

Salute our Tribe, usher Us

into your Purple Earth

with

Workman’s hands . . .