hands seek the
                           blue ribbon--
the flutterer

                                            in butterfly

                                   scars.
catch it.

                      please. This too cannot

    go to god.

                                      The heavens

                     are glutted with
                              joy.

Ale-fiend of a sky-
neatly blotted,
looking down
with sour
red
I

Darkling, folded in absentia,
Eye-wandering through incorporeal portals–

Now a smile,
heretical and broad
as her the sun’s lonely gates.