This Way Has Sides But No Way

On five plinths of stone,
Blood and flutes in pots,
These storms share an eye.
Wind, the work of gods
Who hide eyes in stone,

Takes place in the small.
These words don’t need you.
You don’t need these words.
And yet, here we are,
And from place to place

We grow. More and more.
If we don’t all die,
Our lines can’t be stopped.
What you dread the most
Is not what you thought

Was too glib by then,
Not what you first thought.
The words hold their own.
On the one side, walls
Hint at a path’s shape,

A road through the woods.
But at their feet, gifts,
The kind you give gods,
Are strewn on the stones.
From four worlds, a fifth.