“Antique FoundationHere I built the ruin inMy voice on either side of meIn the temple the ocean couldNot be a crowd I minedThe shore with fog the sun driesThese bricks I built the vision inThe cinder block that is the cityWall this graveTone I speak with a pictureOf myself in my wallet •Don’t be fooled by grass and these wordsGrass whispersBecause they are real they areRuinous Here, the gossip is in the dustNot the sea cloud enters the openChild’s window dimming the silverFlute’s sheen Where is he Who hears inside the brick those notes?There is a rumor in the city we’ll existIf he plays his song no one knows •Follow that shadow don’t tell me it’s mineHere there is no being aloneHere are my hands which tore the leaves soQuietly in the temple the godEmerging from marble points at the chiselAt the base of his stone Did I tell youWhere I’m going? To the old manWho sings the marginWhere on wave-tip swords turn edge over edgeWound us and the shore with foam •My face on either side of my face I toreMy picture in half to show the gateYou must climb inside your breath to leaveAs fog the wind will bear you—If you’re lovely—away In the spare cloudsThe children’s chorus Do you hear?—Where were you, and where are you going?Here I built the ruin in the stone-crushed Sage leaves my hands scented as long ago When I liked to press the desert against my head to think”

− Dan Beachy-Quick −