by a bad highway
torn tar that rides the sacred
blood removed from life
organs hung
in a hammock of frozen flowers
the far-off stare of emerging nonexistence
sending up its smoking tongue.
No words for the many freckles,
no words for the red red hair.
I beat the white walls
with numb fists
but no flowers come.
Walls of stone departing
from far flung fields
crux where she gave the well
a stem of gold
to the chimes that taught the wind
another language
rivets born in tears
that hold a wooden castle's
ochre painted walls.
If math is the mind of God
I'm a crooked wanderer
a crest of exploded skin
blinking on painted sand.
Trade winds pick me up
on a chain of light bulbs
roads of a fallen map
take off like determined seed.
Mantle of ancient depth that she
set flowing like the milk of cactus
dying husk of an immortal reed.
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