Nourished by antiquity

I ache to know the origins
of sarabande, courante and gigue
skip over the aisles of Vonnegut and Mirakami
land at Gogol but find the atmosphere thin
until a line of Beowolf rises up my skin
and with heroes at the table, share their strong mead
Portuguese folias put my racing head to bed
dream self plucks a koto and wakes
midnight at the strident blow of a flute
in the morning I search the catacombs
for a Stoic philosopher or by the banks of the Ganges
a Vedic ferryman to raft me across the current
Hebrew prophets possess my tongue
burning for fires restored
a community armed by shared feauxpas
my home a hut of four clay walls
fingered with petroglyphs, inked sutra scrolls
a portal grants access to the moon
pathway to a pond where old souls commune
while the cinema of screens sings its ode
to the new
a boxed mental space
all mind and no feet
I with mine
rather the weedy amphitheater
cliff-top snake dance
linked railed towns and traveling showmen
foremost the bard, the sachem
the beggar in his robe
regaling the circle with tales of
such rare air—
by which my blood
is filtered here

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