This city of musketeers.
You are always having a bruising―
encounter with yourself.
Everyone tries to find an exit plan,
when the house in on fire,
and the abstract signs go on display.
I think you should not
have organized the religion,
the book, the sermons.
I have lost the way to me,
to my aloneness, to my emptiness.
The economy of words was
in ruins. There was no space
to stand on the sense, import.
A chilling meet begins between
the sparring wheels.