Is lost within the luck an ox hauls.
Is the word-dug space between shallow
hands. I am not this letter, this ox, nor
the road-crux that ink tills, hauling
vein scrawl across the bleak-
leaking whites of a gathering eye.
Early Street is a place fuming with candor
where soon you will have to face so quietly
you, stewing in your own juices. Remember, a star
in the sky that you can't see, sees you
for all of what you aren't, nothing (wisdom)
and all of what you are, everything (love).
"Letter Seven" from Letters to Early Street by Albert Flynn DeSilver. Copyright © 2007 by Albert Flynn DeSilver. Published by La Alameda Press.