The umbilicus of his echoes pierce our ears
and we rise with glazed eyes
to follow the wayward whisper of a voice
diminishing in the interstices of a word.
Our cravings are too shallow
to plumb the sea-deep secret of his heart,
to wind through the myth of black ices
that hold his golden music
Only this desolate stage of coercive syllables,
so thin that they break before entering the air,
fill the stunned mouths of loftier expectation
and language lies cocked like an ambuscade.
Wait for the songs written in dust
to stir by the cliffs
where bridges once were hitched,
and images born from the curve of countless wishes
cross on their candleflame feet
the flumes obtuse at their in-turned wars.
Here cling, there leap,
from clear soul to smoldering threnody
this poet’s work
spaced like lush knolls in endless sand
that flashes with the sharp passing
of his luminous craft.
Rush then to gather every drop of pain and praise
that it might brim memory’s chalice,
and as each inimitable poem
by one into the chasm,
breathe into them your homage and dreams
so they might cross over
the empty limit
of this brittle and crumbling grey.
(c) Seth Grube