I burn my hands

on the wheel of creation

waiting for the lifeblood

of some slain

and unwilling celestial

to send its rivulets

down my shaken walls.

Watching some comet soul

hit the omnipotent bulkhead

looking for a grain beyond grain

a match that strikes itself

some eternal kernel

evincing itself in form.

And the roads

go up in smoke

and the beautiful peak of ice

dried by a far flung thought

and sprayed with metallic

attempts at permanence

must steepen and twitch

with living fibers

and long blonde hairs from hell.

Glass bulbs outward

from many portals

like the throats of freaking frogs

building a tongue web in twilight

for some searching moon

searching because she is empty

searching for fun because her name

is already carved into my chest

by the details of oblivion.

Pillars of marble wheat

grapes plucked from frozen generation

the bones that built a feather in granite

all gone to an unseeing machine.