Clear Conscience

What is your judge?

Your obedience to the sky
is so encumbering, like a bird 
with a broken wing.

Is yours sun? 
Sun-slanted mornings at sea
or is it shadows behind the stones 
earth's reply?
        
There is no voice waiting to answer,
no voice willing to teach you anything,

just a box of grammar stuffed in the attic
one after another, tick-tock, the fossils
forgetting their age, rank, et cetera
in the service of storage.

Tell me what it's like spiraling
what it's like crawling under stars.


Murray Moulding




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