Masters are No Longer.

“ … the ashes of the earth
are the edge of this town.”

Where is there a Lodge
Of Master Markers,
Who’s moon-body has surfed
Beyond the already-traversed marble?

Is it from the east?
Is it to the West?
Could it be farther South,
Or even closer north?

Could the albatross
Have already flown across,
Leaving the mariner’s quiver,
but only the motion of chilled skin?

Continue reading “Masters are No Longer.”