Poem: 21

Forgive me for weeping When my mind turns to creeping The sea of my eyes Springs from soul pain

The body knows such a thing exists The soul: Even though we falter and falter and falter To think of it correctly

I too snarling in contempt At something that seems nothing But a suggestion

That state of vague presence Is an identity stolen through the back door You runs fast and furious with the invisible loot--a history of religion-- Capturing the weaker ones

White rabbits in the snow With a design not meant to be explicit But trusted in the deep sea of yourself Silent but surging strong