My Human Disguise.
What confronts us always hurts us,
Duration that doesn’t endure —
An articulate susurrus
In language absolutely pure
Of meaning, yet the understood
Plucking of a stringless oud.
These settling stones are no older
Than my standing here among them,
Though I will sooner grow colder —
The builders having meant “amen.”
I said “hurt” — I don’t know what kind.
The muscles clench and doubts impinge
On leanings and knowns of the mind.
It’s not a stone but a time henge.
