from a rift in the ground
a living mirror refracts
my inherited cultural self
and scrapes loose the mysterious soul.
I'm drinking through my asshole.
I'm drinking through these
sallow pockmark eyes
from a God-touched Earth
my kind has savaged
with increasingly elaborate error.
Where is the real path to the sky?
It's not through any of their rockets.
The ethereal empties my pockets.
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