Scribes

Give a prayer or a word

an accounting of ink and thought

flour and need.

A map to the world behind the stone arch of pain

and eclipsing light.

Whatever the plea, it is a labor.

To fill the sacks and deliver them to their maker,

to take a tally of the haves and wants.

Some labors work to the aid of the whole, 

make a window of their strain.

Some, a vein repetition, 

a “diggers luck” 

that polishes a mirror. 

Whatever they have done and will do

I cannot make my sign

in any other way, 

than the way

of those before me.

It’s ritual and breath

protection and emulation

practice for the then, now, 

and what’s to come.

Time is a burst fruit, 

evident 

unable to be pieced together 

in a way that keeps hands clean.

You know something of this mess 

you who stitch together realm and circumstance 

and expect your suture to hold.