To Borrow an Old Tongue

Why would I confabulate an epic for some diamond
Or for some lesser object in which the human eye believes;
To demonstrate the way I come to understand it?
but show the way bright flaws reveal to seas.
Where and when do we feel most at home then?
As these years are gardened in months pruned by liars
And decorate by repeating sounds, most unsafe for tender ears—
All my questions then, eventually dissolve
Like tears that fall below the mouth’s shut crease.
Just there. Exposed for their uselessness, brightest
In harsh and tender light: tears can look like questions.
This is the story of the
Fallen, and they, the fallen, mostly foolish among us, are
Who I care for most – my days spent forgetting all the rest.
Without whose faith, friends, we are so very distracted by Septembers
No matter how our Augusts slipped from June ago.
Without what, remains the question after, always
Prepositionally intact in spite of where
The poem goes – the poem goes. But now my friends
If I can call you friends, this time
I am much too watched to care.