Wherein the body is dead
and the mind floats for asylum,
what do the loud knocks expect
upon the door and what shall
the skull
do with such reverberations?

I will always remember you, your
blood just happened there
and my mind was you
all along.

     Have me before
     they take you before
     your black is washed
     away again by histories
     and before the moon
     buries you
     in the nomad opening
     of my tap
     song swallowed
     exquisite and clear
     along my throat. Have me before
     the seasons end and the next
     golden man on screen says
     we must secure our borders
     and soon, instead
     of turning your boats
     away, they will fire
     bold gunpowders, as if
     in another grand campaign
     of their castles
     and silver.

Wherein your mind floats
away and all that is left
of your vanishings is a body:

I will not know what to do with that
but hope for the flood to take us all, arkless.