Santa Fe Poetry Broadside
Issue #11, September, 1999 : -- -1 -2 -3  4 -5 -6 -7 -8 -9 -10 -11 -12
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Rebecca Seiferle
The Sacrifice Tree

                 

Room of Dust

Acrid, the earth falls upon our hands,

it clings to our clothing,

it is silk, and when a hand

traces something in the depths of the floor,

we cannot read it, it is written in the language

which the feet of a drunken man scrawls upon the ground

as he staggers his way home in the morning.

We vanish upon entering this room,

the earth inhales us...we enter the nostrils

of the rain. We go on anyway, we cannot stop.

We know we are walking

into a mouth, the mouth

of that cave where God sits,

a tired vagabond or exhausted tour guide at the entrance,

and waits at the threshold to gently push us in. One by one

we are devoured by beauty. We cannot stop

being born.


Copyright © 1999 Rebecca Seiferle.

About the poet.

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Issue #11, September, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.