New Scriptures

Patricia Killelea

I try to enter an eon:

the one at the center of my skull,

but something needs a bridge there —

a way to cross the river that drinks from me.

When I listen too closely, I’m blinded

by the sound,

                    so many speaking all at once.

Shapes made of our watching

circle near us, and through —

We are moving around in the word,

into the light above the stone.

(There is a voice that can be seen.

There is a voice that also sees.)

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