refuge of dark brick

"Ghazal for a Dead Poet

How many poems have gone unwritten since you left?
The star-burnt sky drifts west, but at this hour what constellations are left?

I turn my head. My palms slip, of their own accord, together
The way hands might in prayer, the right to the left.

If only the right hand is used for eating, for touching,
How lonely the hand we call the left.

Last night I sat before a book, turning the pages
Backwards, trying to undo time, reading right to left.

And I could hear your voice speaking, without weight,
Touching the words lightly, first with the right hand, then the left.

George, you already know the answer to the question you won’t ask.
The clock’s hands move right, abandoning the past. Words are all that’s left."

--George Franklin

My Super Power is Confusion.

Weaponization of folk heathenry.