Friday, April 05, 2019

Bleeding bulbs on the sanctuary wall
try to tell me who I am like alphabet tissue
cool skies without a hope my lump will heal
me looking up at them
like a woodpile with eyes or a toy
a collection of bones in sand
mapping a velvet pentagram
watching the stack of flames at a podium
destabilize the whole horizon
and then the power of man
a mere match head fizzing in a shallow goblet
stems of bitter fruit prodding the sunken body
where the heat and heart shaped leaves
come pouring from
a fork of converging waters
that sparks with stolen light
and clay that cradles the moon.

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