The ground runs sideways,

like the legwork of a tide carried

away by flowers.

Peopled stems that say it's all a

blur--gain ten pounds of

moonlight when they clarify.

Wearing the look of a spoiled

surprise party.

Planes of adjusting light stack thin--

too slow not to meet crookedly.

A broken window on an apple's cheek,

in line with a branch.

Not a sky in the sky--not even a

shadow's deflated ego, but a far

greater eater.

There's a world left out for just that--

which one exactly?

Would you know a horror movie from

the flashes on a vacant seat?

It's like death taking a pass.

Where letting go, goes.

In a substantially backed corner,

stranger than the safety of deep

thought--a spider throws off a dot.

In a house in part, sunlight lets on

in the same way.

As the sound of temperate beams

throw off a house.

The complete history of violence, down

to a body--exhaustive & neatly shrouded.

That eerie Jew beat like a girl, & made to

embrace Rome on high.

A Roman-made example, in a tomb like

a political safe.

Chesty guards outside, pre-fall pawns

dreaming of: food, ******* & drink.

There he was, darkened by every sickly

white stitch.

Told--head to toe.

Our stiff moment subject to memory.

More of desperate search standing in

for belief again.

His pointer finger went up, to signal

salvation to lie there in wait.

He had to go through everyone, the

culmination of our works.

Then walked his body through stone.

Squinting into all we'll ever be.

If we wore: swords, guns, guillotines or

nooses--they wouldn't stick like a

crucifiX.

Your Father picked it out, knew it'd suit

you.

Sort of like a gift you always wanted, that

you almost gifted to Gethsemane.

Recognizable even if never seen before.

The most loaded & alighted symbol, that

could stop silence.

Make a place of no place anywhere.

When you were nailed to all those

places--the track you heard in your head

ran the length of The Holy Spirit.

Your Father closes all the lights & listens

to it now.

'It feels like today Son...'

It Is.

Night is a spacemonger, more about what

can't be conceived than what can't be

seen.

Not only on some level, it's what gets into

stars when they counterpoint.

Starting from a brilliantly aborted

distance, whose distance never gets

beyond what Is.

Which covers the same distance as what

Is Not, that's how far.

They are to be named in the way that one

forgets a name--but knows it.

The stars, that Is.

Similar to the things he's doing tonight

that have nothing to do with his name.

As there are ways that it unhappens--

there's more distance in the thought of

what he's doing, than what he's doing.

As some New York Jazz plays.

The sax's notes are even cooler about the

whole thing.

They saw to it no one asked where

They were.

Their absence may as well been a

handheld camera to the sky, shaking the

focus to indicate They were still there.

Tidily odd as peace's indifference, a

season ago.

They've made of it, does it show?

Now animals simplify spring fashion--

the smell of heat taken from its source.

The wild commands: DRIVE!

Come out--COME!

While reflections are saught as often as

unobserved appearances, like self-image

in coitus.

A skewed trance.