chant of saber-tooth termites
raising in the pith of its wood
a white-bellied stalagmite
Where does a runner go
whose oily grip drops
the baton handed by the faithful one
in a hard, merciless race? Or
the priestly elder who barters
for the curio collector's head
of tobacco the holy staff
of his people?
Let them try the land
where the sea retreats
Let them try the land
where the sea retreats
We Laughed at Him
We laughed at him our
hungry-eyed fool-man with itching
fingers who would see farther
than all. We called him
visionary missionary revolutionary
and, you know, all the other
naries that plague the peace, but
nothing would deter him.
With his own nails he cut
his eyes, scraped the crust
> over them peeled off his priceless
patina of rest and the dormant
fury of his dammed pond
broke into a cataract