the curious wreckage

to find the rhythms of a breath
the tumbled ocean of a thought
the windy wayward wiles of a word
we tread that muddy field
that borders the sweet void
and barricades us
from meaning
we build our own mythology
to learn the texture of a fault
the blazing penury of want
the brackish thorn of discontent
we speak the olden curses
and spill three drops of wine
to know the ending of a dream
--to find the rhythms of a breath
amidst the curious wreckage
of a soul