Enshrined in the monastic curve
of my throat, the silence
of a grandfather, his torn shadow
behind an eyelid.
I quarry in air. Carve through voice.
Fix in the mouth the five positions. The sounds
against palate, teeth, and tongue: his poem sung
running through the punitive streets, fleeing
the speech of fire.
Gravelaid grandfather, violet-gray
in your bones. Counterworld.
The stone rose sounding.
Grey Sparrow Journal 