I cast my serpent hand into enfolding space
the line of lagging voices flagged and snapped
is in my shattered blood
the work of shrines requires endless offerings
doors are painted with a seer's eye
each fisted hand is a cabin of hearts
where the fires of love emit a pleasing stench
to be reported across glass bridges
I'm searching for the cinematic piston
that oils the feline spine
a spoon to fill with the light of wheat
dawn's painfully clear tables
to be lavished with the nightmares of the soul
caught fresh from the alchemist's pool
where fire licks fire
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