__________

Time-scythe, sweep further:
only you will not be commanded.
The push of tendrils in the soil
does not ache or listen.

I'll be greatly aged, to greet the body
of a woman who has already suffered.
Hack me down to a burning semi-colon:
a solid sun and one that flares
to paint with radio waves

my small room, where I keep the imprints
of those who died creating blind
those who were wept down to dregs
by their own hysteria; let me be a red priest
tugging all their gravity of manuscripts
over the urgent local hills.

In the blueprint's net
where they suffered and reached
let us make love in the manner of crows
the web of bright-wound things
we've taken offhand from each other.