Maybe I'll wade out

into the blood pool

and open up my head.

Maybe I'll lay down upright

and turn into a butterfly.

Let the woods dance like rhymes,

let the fever come up through stone

with bladed limbs.

Maybe the carnival of bright wires

is my web of songs.

Maybe the fire contained

by mechanical lids

is the stuff of divine life.

Let the motors ululate

like fisher cats unseen

in the depths of a spectral night.

Let the keyboards be laced with skin

let the veins become codes

in the rain of unrelenting sight.

May the wings of this thing turn

toward the hearth of light.