January 2003

There is a heaviness between us,   
Nameless, raised from the void, that counts out the sprung hours.   
What ash has it come to purify?   
What disappearance, like water, does it lift up to the clouds?   

God of my fathers, but not of mine,   
You...

          Philosophic
in its complex, ovoid emptiness,
a skillful pundit coined it as a sort
    of stopgap doorstop for those
           quaint equations

           Romans never
dreamt of. In form completely clever
and...