Abstract Random

In a lost pyramid
the size of my thumbnail
are inscribed random weighty edicts
of wooden flavor and rattling sound,
trafficking naked in stained corridors and
winsome byways forgotten.
Aztec spirals circle the wide red womb of the earth
and the whorls of each fingertip are dense with stars and dust,
shattering any connection I had with
time, space, or pencil lead.
There is no legend, no key: we are, every last one of us,
making it up as we go.

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