xxxxviii.

did you think you were alone--
weeping pitifully in the lee of some boulder
as the desert sun goes down?

don't you know that every one of us, every one
has been beaten, is bruised
is bleeding, from their long journey
between the sands?

didn't you know that every one of us,
every man, woman and child
has hung upon the boards
thirsting

that every one of us,
every man, woman, child
has been crucified by circumstance

either we mourn together or no one mourns.

the street is a festival of monsters
every word and note is a device
to ease the passage of the crippled

if we walk, we should walk together
and rejoice when anyone of us finds
that what was broken
has grown anew, and strange
--a tail, claw, an elongation of the ears

in the gray, dust and at the coming of night

the songs should swirl

in the wind and eastward

--cease your wailing

your screams are the ancestors
of music, from a torn back
--the suggestion of wings

march, with us the weary,

as the sun fails, you may shamble, stumble

or huddle, but as the stars rise

you must walk