It is told & it is told & it is told again. Whispered in the kitchen by women dividing violets, separating beans from stones. There came a man then walking in his father's shoes who heard the three dogs barking by the stream & at the crossroads owned neither by this woman nor that man saw two white horses in a line & said, "Yes, I am a wanderer in my own land." Who are you anyway? An old crow fallen among gold apples? A man shaving his father's face in the mirror? Naked under the white sow of the moon with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling, you think, What is my life? A dog abandoned at the end of summer? A walk in the rain? I have lived with my body so long, is it not my soul? Sadness tunes the instrument. There is a chill on everything. You feel the surge, the violent momentum of emptiness filling immense forms, energy frozen in each cell, the snowplow in a sea of waves spellbound by starlight. Night, night, sweetest sister, weary river flowing on, who will sing all our tomorrows? The lucky ones who continue to live having nothing?