He is the memory of a nation, divine weary. He is the reclamation of uncharted, the drag of rutted sacks over cobblestone, sifted, searching, managing amongst the need. He is measurement, rumination, the collected muck of wagon wheels rolling onward through the dark. He is the darkness, the place we put ourselves when there is no one left for praying, the turn of swiveled cheeks and daedal ear bones; he is the places we stink of in sleep.
He is memory, the mud stuck breath of us, he is Owl, traveled deeply among trees. He sleeps quietly, housed in depth and callousness, careful of teaspoons, of the sip cups that we offer; we are bilious, boastful, preserved in the lives that we lead. He is tertiary; breath and skin stretched to the reach of us. Open, tired, weary; a maw of life that lives the lives we speak.
His hands are cracked with the weight of us; silent, fissure rivers he wears accordion deep. His shoulders are knotted, clotted with memory, the gluttonous cavernous houses that we claim and we seek. We are children, drunk on discovery of riverbeds, he is nature, arranges leaves in his sleep. We are wistful for places he knows live inside us, we are greedy, ask for more than we need. His feet are rutted, loved by the roads that would follow him, his palms are open, find a place amongst need. He is memory, the divine weary of nations. He is among us, we have no favours to give.
~ for Bob Lovelace