Upon snow-fire, drained in spirit,
tired of flame, tired of art, asking
God pertinent questions—the hair in those
scriptures, Ezekiel in pain, the walls
painted with sin; Jeremiah
lamenting, the great meanings, lording
over an imagination. Flesh
churning, writhing in panic, debating
mirrors, hearing nothing, sensing
eternity—getting loose, the
majestic caves, a tale told in tears.
Rereading chapter 1, intuition
is its alpha, mystic rites, sage burning,
a candle and a number; sullen
gorging, tacos for breakfast, good pain for
lunch, cooking dinner fresh from work; many
rumors, some would stick, abased inside those
days of old. The hallway jamb—aged in
whispers, the elephant just
graduated—tier 12, the hells, those eyes
trying desperately—if to sense a
human. Made it easy. Made it straight.
Many jackets, one soul, so connected
we intuit discomfort … many
salutes, family embarrassed, black sheep
water, bubonic plague art, rats in
sewers. To know is to feel ashamed. To
love is to know rain. And to seek
is necessary to find such.
