Speaking of Chessboards

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The pieces have lost their significance:
The hand must move over them, beyond
The board into the face not a face,
Into the realm of fluxing land unrooted
By the death mask of logic’s light.

The melodies of flesh no longer lie
In the moving of the passing music:
Our shadows burn too vivid, too false
To show how pure is our impurity.
Burn this idle hunger, pierce the ribs

Of history’s barn, look, stretch beyond,
Behind the masque. This game will never end,
Begun, will never move past that is,
White and Black, both boned as pregnant
As the un-carved hands of the all-known.

Copyright ã 1986-2005 Pilgermann BM