The Unleft Mark

This is the mind, and it is faceless

like my miraculous silence. Ages

carry their suffering children

to the native spring –

a crystal of longing

where flight is weightless.

My dreams have wander,

pulling sheets from the stars,

beyond outlines of the wind.

Pieces of the mirror gleam, 

and my eyes are dark -

like the water of the future,

deep with the organ of youth.

The air came later -

a finger tracing along the truth.

The child sat, an open mouth

dragging everything through its tooth.