hidden injuries of my ass
With so much docile stasis

forelit by facial logical code
a chance for prayer is

—questioning unflourished
accentless textual halos

over unconscious
skull-wrapped crowns of chill

The form of our medium compels
certain dramatic literality

jealousy among creations
in the beginning as (a thorny sprig?)

finding one’s place to stand
is out of fortune achieved without tears


How accustomed we’ve become
to seeing the evil
of others,
through fragile sets of thought.

Easy our hearts find menace,
sinister calculation
and malice—
clothed in the flesh of a stranger;
Mother, brother, lover.

Do the works I now lay down
before us, and lay down
with me,
within them.

Ask not for retreat
until rest seeks you—finished,
ready for assumption,
the judgement’s mantle
at last:
a perfecting fit.


The first story was
of a blessed brier, precarious wealth
of an undivided word
intersticed in corrosive
gums’ tissue
heaving loss—bone occupying
doomsday voices

(to talk or
to speak or
to write—)

(to think or
to feel or
to know—)

flights of the cries of the head,

I am too young
and deserve not
to go

all stronger than mine,
all stronger than mine,
all stronger than mine.