we are somewhere that gathers moss
while churning butter into permafrost
with dainty little hands, grown savage
from wailing in prayer. we contain a noise
that surrounds us. all the golden pollen
of our dark gardens, swelling in the flame
of our Mystery…. unopposed.
we join intangible things to quicken the hardpan
of our ziggurats. we hum our contusions
into clouds of memory, abandoned by pain
and left adrift in the eye of a grateful monsoon.
culling pearls from loose oysters
where the moon should be.