I’ve inherited anger and wreckage.
Neither the wake of it after waking

nor said words disappear after saying
I’m sorry. Even a good man is still

all men, I see them in me, fathers and
feathers, the same. How does the gull

do it, circling always some future’s find.
Gray area keeping it airborne like vague

and hollow blades resist the wind’s first
winter blast, that icy force sets a shiver

in me, pinions jetsam to stone. Unable
to receive the feeling-toned overtures

I ask for disambiguation but get null set.
I ask to have my feeling-tones received

in the echo of my asking, I ask the dusk
of descent, darkling, and am again denied.

The world is not the same world that just
now was. Time sees so we change always.

The moon rises like a Roman coin, a god-
faced, orichalcum gleam in pastel dusk

of an ancient ongoing sky. Image incites me
to epiphany to worship an only moment-

ary numen: this tree, sea, cliff, and pass
the place in placefulness, the full of it

like the what that fills me what sets me
on edge mediates my atonement for what

vexes us. What vices we know. And still
still the arche is acrimony we can’t escape

but to evolve into higher orders like
lesser gods appearing angelic or alien

for what do we know of otherness but
the nadir of our own ignorance.