Sacred Space of New Numbers

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone


Sacred Space of New Numbers

Of things that pass
And wheels of merriment
Topping the world
It’s time to build the magic
Together, even as I crawl low
To the ground, feeling for
The tickle of grass, a universe
Of textures and sound.

I don’t know this country yet.

A walk of pleasure suns
Warm fallings back
A new wooden glow behind me
Nesting, enveloping, this temple and
The sparse chair, metallic and brown
Sitting itself in repose on a
Narrow pathway splitting a garden
Of grass, rock and sculpted trees
Which have not been visited in
Some time.
I will visit there and forty
Years of mine will have passed
And I will walk in contemplation
Of each movement, and search
For no-thought,
And look toward the sky.

A woman waits at
The light, on her
Bike, I can’t
See her face. She lifts her foot,
Which is in a flat black
Shoe. As her heel lifts,
Another layer of black
Shoe remains on the ground,
Like she is
Lifting out of herself,
Walking right out of her
Encasing and into
The world.

Have I left any kind of legacy? I guess
I’ve only ever wanted small things, less even,
Than I thought. I want quiet days for
Reaching in, and close, yellow butterfly love
Around me.

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