underneath the moon's fingernails
you will find all the evidence you need
to pin the crime of passion, that is the world -
at the doorstep of the Purity
that wrought the flesh
and all Sol's avenues above us in the blue !
above the very tiny crowns
in the snow.

now that my days over boil with teeming
and nothing loves me so.... I must love You.
i must not restrain my whimsy, but rather
conjure amaranths from dead soil. Happy yet deflated -
i must come from Somewhere I have been ....  

or all places.

or else, be in the clutches
of less Beauty.

where am I from ?
My parents cannot say.
my memories cannot resolve,
and my poems
cannot display.
i am rupture and wink.
like a butterfly and a wyrm.
but nothing so much
as beautiful
as an empty
return.

how the air tastes is not what the air tastes like.
my lungs are not deceived.
i live where the grim is gorgeous
and the sun a fiend.
where the moon has vendetta
when a grievance would do.
and nowhere am i constant
but i constantly
true.

i've been endothermic and marginal. stung by cryptic bees
with wheezing stings that haunt the glacier of the private mind.
i have hijacked my quota of dismal and pawned the scope of my grasp for a bird in the hand, in a coma.

under the spell of too many gods... a stone will bleed.
and countless feathers abandon the whole of the Sky
to barter for trinkets underground.
as every living doll cannot die... your prayers.
and all the world, sacred -
to a fault.

it's when the very Night itself feels illegal
and yet you trespass every hour of your truancy ...
free to roam the prison of your freedom
as if born to inertia without wings.
without therapy.