mountain of sky above me.
too much candle
too soon the bird in all its glory
flocking to the moon.

i sip from the emerald sea,
black, turnip eyes behold
a caravan of lies, each of
my little heads turning
two words against the tide.

inside of that undead flotilla,
where the lowest torture of flowers
is met by dew,
and by a stovetop, its aching rust,
forming into revelation:
picture you.

i guess i dance out
in a sandstorm,

i have a gourd, two left shoes,
something crayon:
a feel of paper being crumpled
by the shade my body cannot keep.

that same feel, that textured death,
a eulogy of kneeling,

i am safe, ordained
glimmered son.