I don't miss the fantasy

of grand narratives.

I watch the river turtle

slide between some rocks

to hide himself

and I finally understand.

There is nothing to desire here

just some flashing scenery

ripples fascinating in the burn of death

the fevered ticking in the bones that dance

for battered flesh

and then it's gone for a song.

Zones of light constructed

square off against the snarl of storms

vines climb like rain

the bricks that know them not.

Billie sings so coyly

like a mockingbird concealed alone

in the swelling of a summer tree

some cancer of man has fallen

on lines of space like paint

I am stricken with a spell that fades

and the incense scented pages with a raging tell.