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            for Philip Kitcher
The hero poured blood in the well
to swell the seers’ shades.
Their trudge through time now done,
their traumas cross generations,
to crouch in cells hard by
the lost light fields
of summers that still spark flashes
on the well water’s skin
like silent movies from the deep. 
voices beneath language
chant inheritance.
Inside their membranes words hold memories.
As we’ve stalked nature,
the striding hours burning behind us,
and the stars,
the stars
slam through galaxies like break shots
inside the tiniest cells
and in the farthest fars.
And yet,
the blank slate arrives still wet
from the well.
The songs
we sang along the Ganges to praise
the soil seducing sun
still sing.