liar's art
1. Our Bones
3.  The Wheel

One victory will frame all counting. Let
the wheel run through. Its color is. Its sound
is wind for sailing.  Days and numbers set
a man alone against his saints, on ground
enough to kneel, beside them, near the dead.
An hour is theft, a figured score that fails
the doing. Years collect themselves and wed
themselves to flags and make themselves a veil.
We are not a math to be solved and shed.
Our bones and skin and blood will never side.
The rose of spring is always autumn’s red.
and every sea becomes itself by tide.
Let wind tear through the map of measured suns
and mount the planet’s curve as blessings done.
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