grown in furrows
patterns
of blazing hills
our squint-eyes
slice the sky
a
seasonal dance
a Janus-glance
I’m
not saying we’re prophets
but
we hear the rhythms
and we’ll
help you through the doorframe
not
with kerosene and swaddling
nor torches
and babies
we’re children of the fire, made of it
—who
said that?
something
in the underbrush:
orphaned skunks in a hollow
broken toys
oscularies waiting
for
aeration
something
violent to mix them
with
another, shall I pass through
or
lie
in
wait for my destroyer? what is
my
substance? liquid or air?
errr errring every day
taking
the dare, pissing
in
the men’s urinal at church
looking
for a rite that might
right
you that might
upright
you that mite:
you,
me for example
under
a golden sky
everybody
kissed everybody’s hands
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