Our Lady of the Meantime

Make out of me
a song that sounds like your speaking;
let the heights come in
to these small intersections
hill path take a fuming tree
to a peak bombarded by electronic vapors
and the time-yelps of touches cut short
put movements of kids in lonely corners
tiny boats touched into slow motion
something shrouded that begs
continually to be devoured
while trays of waxy light float past

We could be in Paris, or fucking
with religious figures in the palaces of Chicago
we could be in an afterlife where all one does
is exhale
listening to a student of galactic infrastructure
threaten to bury himself
with a load of railroad stakes
or erupt like green lava
from the local radio station saying:
make out of me
a song that sounds like your
speaking you
who do not.