how comfortable it is to sit here knowing what to say,
as if this lump in my throat had a voice of its own,
or was engraved with symbols, maudlin as my eyes,
and i could read them clearly.

this artifact was found by accident
in some ancient village of self-images
   --used for chipping off pieces of self.

do i interpret my own primitivity well?

fragments glint unburied
under heavy breathing firelight.
loud, blinding,
it makes the night an iridescent one.
i rave some, dance-invent discovery, then quiet in the fade.

there is a core of me, to this accumulation ventured..
i'm afraid i only guess though,
like groping in the night.

nails in hair, the boney trail i leave behind
may cure the barrenness

i'm feeling differently now, having explored darkness
sharpness in the dirt.