Here is the pilgrimage, hand over stone,
flat like an iron tongue. I wear this grief
through me -- an angel on fire – a thief
in my garden short-circuiting the zone,
brained-out like a future idiot phone
message heaved from the throat like a belief-
system wrecked, nocked arrow the chief relief.
Sleep cracks gravity’s law, singes the bone
that won’t break the black above live oak limbs.
The backbone rattles the night sun and surfs
metallic satellite light-white that rims
these astral edges, burns blue this song words
cannot undo; no plug, drenched in light-speed,
I’m sawed in half without the past, my reed.
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