I try to ignore overtness a dream-harbinger sure
hunger for peace and diamonds with birds chirping in wilderness. At high
voltage most stronger with tales sullen into an aesthetic the art of its
mountain those words they can’t mean much! A markswoman a season turning into chalice
and chastity or sin so savory. I personalize at moments, reading a neat book,
as one to have never seen himself. Those eyes condemn me, never walked my linage,
never crept across darkness, never saw my ghosts—so, Why should it hurt, Why
should it count, where it aches in Christ? I was last in line. I sat at the
back. I picked cotton, fingers raw, tears dripping, Jesus sweating blood! Damn it!
The book is open, gliding midwave, assuaged at the gates, listening to Lazarus.
Never knew for ashes, rolling tobacco, sipping grayness—matter of its guise,
measure of its song, purposed to live, exist, and die. (“Let it go!”) Adrift in
essence looking like a miracle made humbler than time the ghosts lingering the
flame purged as reignited the sale of a soul dropping into Limbo asked to
surrender the gift. Prayers for God. Prayers for self. Prayers for show. At identity.
At market. At everything a soul would die for; at his bones, eating his marrow,
bleeding his name. If time could permit the final candle!
