What is your judge?
Your obedience to the sky
is so encumbering, like a bird
with a broken wing.
Is yours sun?
Sun-slanted mornings at sea
or is it shadows behind the stones
There is no voice waiting to answer,
no voice willing to teach you anything,
just a box of grammar stuffed in the attic
one after another, tick-tock, the fossils
forgetting their age, rank, et cetera
in the service of storage.
Tell me what it's like spiraling
what it's like crawling under stars.
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