The Prince of Paradox 

If I could just understand 
what makes the one become again.
If I could just understand
the gall to demand; that that
flourishes even inside me.

I will wet the dust.
I will bring the rains.
I will mold this wet earth into a fist.
By the campfire, it bakes, I sit.

These passing moments,
I will hold on to them
to enamel a softer gaze.

The fist lies            in wait.
Violence never seems to sate.
Latent in the glance of a neighbor.
Paranoia waits for divinity at the locked door.

I sit and arrange a mosaic of shining things.
A well of light with which to cleave 
the concrete,
for now

for form is suffering 
and I can feel the wind starting to take me.
Oh, to be dust again! 
Please don’t shield your eyes from me this time.