Briefly forgetting
the color of fireworks,
thunderous applause;
my ears ringing.

Tell me what I'm doing here,
why I'm searching a crowd
of faceless strangers.

Don't tangle the stars
that map my way home,
Don't ask me if the flame
is responsible for the moth.

To ignore the desert winds,
the beckoning of glittering gourges
and dreams of melting rocks
turning to storms of steam.

The doctor worries for me,
my lungs are filled with sand castles

When you are light and choir's angels
it comes like untouchable waves
in oceanic electricty

but entropy bricks
smashing open
twitching birds skulls
these,

these are the things
that hold tangible beauty.

my vows are blood
on your bed sheets,
my hands are tied
to a thousand timelines.

The Shrike, alone in his perch,
does feel the heat of the sun
and at dawn he sleeps
while the world looks on

Emerald field by church
Sexton is on vacation
Please send us post cards

He can paint himself a million colors
but beneath he will always be disintegrating,
and his clothes bring with them
the smell of dust and long-gone water.

He has intimately known the event horizon,
he has kissed the death of stars
with the ashes of his soul.