Young Mystics (Hemistichs)

A word made light
The poet’s door, the shaman’s drum, the layman’s experience
An enormous ripe red world in its beak
Its bardic beat to the shaman’s drum
Fingers in the fire, arcing            over the fire
The moon’s course
Cut in two by the layman’s scythe
And sewn together at the side
By the poet’s slurs, like a threshold
Steps into darkness.
At this time of year, you have to be careful
Not to stumble into the shaman’s
Unsteady night dream
Instead of out of your door
And into your own unseen garden.
On a moonless night
You can tell by the stars
If you know the stars right.
Otherwise, the poet will have
To bring you back stitch by stich
And you will have to risk a dim-
inution, a seam, and a few loose ends.
I’m afraid
They’re rather young, and they’re slackers.


The earth’s projection catches it in a net of space
The stars are spoked on invisible latitudes
And satellites are glued into concentric orbits.
The shaman is creating his dream world
On board
The poet has the electric lines
And laissez-faire attitude
But it’s the layman who makes it real

When the lights come on
It takes some time
To recall their place.


Isn’t it time
You gave yourself
The gift
Of just being
Who you’ve wanted
To be
All these years?

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