Birth is death, and death is a star.

The swallowed earth is melting down

her prison bars.  The ground

regurgitates the blood of the lost.

Dogmas die in dust

and the impossible body rises.

Crescents traced on red clay

create chiming swing sets,

silver playgrounds for the elderly,

who slide on space.  The soil hesitates,

the stone is a bouquet of knives.

Chains rattle like a song

sheathed in rivers of burning oil.

Bark peeling from the forests of childhood

becomes scrolls in a cave.

The masses climb over the dying light

like ants.  The fated architecture of the web

splits like a windshield, like the scars

on a white cliff, like the soul

of a dying island.

I will force the singularity of man

through an unripe grape, the green

of the robotically assembled state.

In the bent birches of an unsigned cathedral

I will wear the barbed wire robes

of the outcast priest, and hold

the cutting shell that gathers these last seeds.