Is it a vicious brother’s sigh of regret that Joseph dreams
to hear in the well?
He is a windfall, found and sold by merchants (charmed to profiteer from a well!)
Eleven stars, the sun and moon bowing. The stars in the prophecy are but thieves
When Joseph is stolen, the sun hangs away light, the moon disappears in the well
Long live the dove that teaches her young to build a nest under the cannon’s eye
Long live the spirit that fights a duel on the rim, may she have no fear of the well
War’s massive hinges creak when we cry peace, its magnet draws our bones
The dead lead the parade, the ill in lockstep, runaway gurneys bearing the well
Too many words died the day your kind killed the last of honey bees, Zeest
In a language without sweetness, without sting, say to Poetry: fare thee well!