Your words be but wind
Wonder & glory, power & sand, the way in the moonlight
over gouges in landscape. Unzip a skull: a painting of the process
of this thing operating: to the depths of disengagement
men are flying. I’m a puppet.
Clack my skull & you’ll see the globe
of a fist. Plateful of breast—
& black bone—leaving us to the wolves,
to the meatslicers in clanking armor.
Light says, wipe yourself out. No one is ready for this.
Light out of fire, out of witch trial
before its naming. Light the organ pipes.
After all these years of waiting
I’m willowed! & widowed
on this isthmus window.
AGATHA AT DAWN
and how well that all these things hurtle
& then we’re trying on the molecules
of sainthood, delivering ourselves to the gods
of caffeine. We’ve got very little
to fight for. Make your body mean
juggling, make it jump from an altar. Let them
chop down your couplets. Syllables
to rally by, fighters’ tricks or the vulcan’s edge:
a little boy goat, & because goats
are the devil’s cousins, I let him fall
into magma as I declared my heart to all
girl things. Fornicating grass blades witnessed.
Was a slut, now a savior. Once was lost. So many
dead before dying’s revelation—
all papier-mâché, delicate sword.