I naturally prefer new
To old
And ask the walls,
Stone that was once boulder,
If it’s a fault.
I raise my hand
To the cement cleft
Separating one carved bloc
From another.
No, I suppose.
What’s old is often and especially
Brilliant
Before the touch, the asserted agency
The taking
Which is so often excluded
From the eulogy.
I will appreciate the word
Long before
The poem,
The mother
Before the son.