Jun 28, 2014 by

Gilgamesh rolled a rock without any colors in fingers long as church sermons.
No pieces twinkled in his jagged shard, no shimmer in it at all–flat as dead little rat eyes.
The rock and the fingers and his very great weariness in silence,
creepy-clacked to the end of my big toe.
Enkidu sings quietly from a wrinkled tree with bark as gray as the rocks.
Only the very tips of them are leafed-green. Even the sky is hushed,
humming along with Enkidu’s dirge by sending a robin to mumble-warble.
They both wear feathers and I watch them oily-gleam in the sun.
“I had a door. And on that door was my life,” he tells me.
He counts my toes with his eerie fingertips, I cannot say if he is more bird or more man.
“I do not think it was wise of me. Doors remain closed and
lives in stone don’t really breathe.”
I nod carefully, as if I know the delicate things that immortals weave.
As if I knew the gates of Uruk and all the deeds of my life, carved therein.



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