I

 

A fox and a dove have dropped their fables into a creek.

They have been listening to the drummer in

the center of the sun for too long. 

Now they count the statues of primordial animals

that sleep in cracked rusty bowls all day long

`til their heads begin to throb. They wear human masks: 

they want to lose the feel of their hair and feathers. 

It is a pleasure to be nameless in this world. 

 

II

 

There is a dying drummer in the middle of the sky.

The golden hands of beings called Awhile,

At, And, Along and After carry him away

into the darkness which is someone's face.

Afraid to sing, they see no bird, no blade of grass, no tree.

Afraid to lie, tombstones dance below.

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