peace be thine

The languid eyelashes of the fourth poet
flicker piling shovels of herbal muse into the concrete
truck mixing and revolting – sluicing it back out
into allegoric lines

staged onto the page

intuitions like stones

resting fathoms apart

in immortal gravity

people come and whisper –“is it
a plan? Will it be washed on the inside?”
scooping inside for a little white marble attempting not
to pop the slick rubber bands of fool’s desire

a gaze falls on the leather page
protesters move about in twos and threes
gashed hands across the back delicious and nutty
like a frozen lysosome

some will be martyrs, and we will remember them
some will slip into the undergrowth and sleep
amid the twigs and heather, the only comfort being
the gentle hands of long evolved forms

if to die is the pure path, then die we must
but here on earth there is a destiny too -
the ensured calming of the beasts
into the deep pool we call clarity of mind