I think life’s a pretty good deal
To eat and drink, to touch and feel
To love, to dream, to build, to waste
To don the mask, to tend one’s face

My chief complaint, so far it stands,
is no disruption by the hands
It’s not pride’s backdraft from the wit,
not ego extracted from merit

Not pillaging of foreign place,
fetishization of Other race,
The violence inherent in the choice,
to raise one’s own and silence a voice

For these things we banish to abstraction,
the pains unseen grace not my action

I sink my hands into the soil,
fashioning from memories of souls’ toil
Nearly sense loss cometh before,
yet wisdom unheard knocks at my door

Mind occupied, my walls are built
from my own arms, born of my skill
Neglect the gods alive in motion,
of leaf, of sky, of flame and ocean

The ample years through which we grow,
come into being, ourselves to know
Time’s canvas across which identity drapes,
forgotten Logos, meaning to waste

Gods forgotten, raison d'être uncertain
Stay compartmental behind the curtain


—A.B.

‍