The moon is eating my fungus.

Hard machinery is building a soft wall.

The raging stars, the drift of dark material

are a part of it.  The mirror of

deception is a breaking flame.

Arabesques of burnished metal

are a net between me and you.

Don't poke your fingers through.

Just listen to the roaring and light up.

The night is a cup full of lively worms.

The branches dip and the sacred water yearns.

I am not the pet of bodily affections.

Instead I am the spirit that has broken loose.

I don't send the goddess a blank check,

I send her an arrow on a thread.

Libraries of glass in tall containers

hold myriad octopus mouths.

Heaters crank under the ice

to create a force field.

Somebody's time machine

but not mine.

Cudgel the fossils into glittering salt

I will be standing nearby and invisible

with my finger on the hologram.

Stain your grip on the cord.

Far off on the inhuman altar, far off

on a parchment of dried pond scum

you look for the mask

that was made from my blood.

Outside the orbit of the ringed planets

the future is a smoking tomb.

With the returning giants

I walk space away from your garden

and the ghosts inside the wires

are my gloves within the reigning womb.