old graffiti takes me back
to the days of the tuneless whistle
where the name etched on the bark of a tree
might have been me in a previous
shedding of the spirit,
when it held the master key
to the dance of frosted fields
and preserved the earthly lineage
of formless gods and goddesses
through organic ritual struck in stone
- from Revised Rudeness: Poems 1983 - 1991
