From hand to hand they pass the polished stick;
the fire crackles, a dance of sparks is done
above the shifting tray of logs.
Their god is linear; he has an end
and a beginning; is unamused by plotless anarchy.
The stick is smooth with continuities,
anonymous hands, forgotten tellers
tonguing remembered tales.
Invention is sudden, like a leap of sparks:
it comes, it goes, delays the stick
but does not hold it back.
It was a branch, sap-sticky once,
in leaf before its cutting down.
THE NARRATORS by Nicholas Murray | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
