The narratives have all run out,

the light plays in many directions.

The torments of a god

split into slick pieces

and ornamental garbage.

Lines going wavy at the hem

of a great silence, that stretches

yawning through the veil of emptiness

to a field of fertile stars

fallen on blue soil

far past the manmade zones

of territorial ooze.

I shrink into the smallest molecule

and lay down naked on the pages

of a honored book.

The letters cook my guts

and my bones fall out.

Horizons pour gold and sauerkraut

onto the plate of my grave.

My tongue grows longer

than these high electrical wires.

It burrows through the earth

then out into the home of space.