CIPHER.

Since I am an empty vessel,
the life of water makes room
in me, born hard
from a boiling river,
I circle the encampment of pigs,
with the murder of destroyers
in my eyes and ribs,
calm as a milk-cat, eating air
like it's my prize, buttocks
tenderly parted by dance
to shit on the cage
they have brought out in my heart,
for me to work with like a bitch,
as the sun is glossed over by the million
pale eyelids, as the earth is
ignored, as the battering ram melts
through my divine cycle,
as the empty square bleeds
red bricks of light
on the raging fullness torn into voice
glade's mutation of the holy spirit
fertilizing echoes with salt.