become the floor
be closer to god

fold in and in
on myself
like a swan

myself a wound
the thing
once again stings

open-eyed
a pure white bull
materializes
in the road ahead
in the moonlight
after a flashing tunnel
in which you thought you—

as if after
entities
and shadow
and time
on this specific
transmigration—

as if,
potentially,
this time—

future fable

not for stars, not for blood, not for God, not for her, not for them, not for you, not for ash, not for us, not for bone, not for dust.

for me.

all across the baddening land
butterflies will drink the tears of turtles
and all shall be well
and all shall be well

hands have come before
to worship; but despite long pilgrimage,
only half-focused on prayer.

nectar from stone seemingly
sieved more easily; myself
despite piety, sacred nothing.

bone of my bones
flesh of my flesh
filaments of light filtering
through the leaves of the trees

It’s said that if you traverse the triangle, it will heal your soul.

As long as there is a song, I am walking the path.

wept and fasted
slept and prayed
asked for signs

sought and found
a lodestone
trembling unreliably

knowing one
knowing all
pragmatically safe

home on the range
remotely
someday

myself ephemera
the only way out
is through