Six

What if there were scars?
The failing of one life, induces sleep.
They cannot fear glimpses of blue tiles.
Something we invest ourselves with, in earnest.

Borrowed ornaments accompany me
And there, the thousand volumes about me
Throw it in the woods, like a dog covering it’s scat.
Epistle of the German.

Cut to cheating, not to show, but to direct
– numb, after all, or so it seemed.

Feet remained numb and so his hands
Neither studied nor understood when finished
His cautious way along it.
Voices- sputtering reeds.
The more life there is, the slippery surface.
Had some ancient hero been buried here?
I know men’s souls
Blurred patches on a silver blue sky.