Hands for anathema
and whatever else happens to fall
from the sky in your mouths.

Mountains, valleys, fountains,
stanzas slung in alleyways
outside the houses of our youth.

As loud as the views.

As bright as an empty noose.

We were here before, remember?

wine or blood?

either way, a window opens
and all I see is how the sheep
and the wolf share a common
enemy:
the shepherd.

blood it is then.

Choosing the dusk
before dawn to halt the
flowers beheading.

It wriggles like
snake, the time. No wait
between life and death.

Take me to deep
sea of pain. I will never
count falling stars.

what is it that's being divined in

the murk, in the bullish presence

of unclothed trees?

that malign secrets that can't be

kept, what inevitably slows spinning

faces?

upon which time the heart's going to

be sick, and wretch into frozen blood?

is this what you came for in answer--

what responds to a knock upon a door...

and what does not appear when opened

becomes the envy of the unborn.