the heart of the earth is
once exposed
then hidden
by the sliding surface
of another planet
that gold morning that
falls on the screaming
garden
means
it's a day of
reckless mourning
rising upward astral
into atmosphere
and rhythm measures distance
between men and
the
divine
obscuring things
in tragic
tongues
the false arrival of the god
in longing
widow of light
missing her chance
at
grace
stuck in a
lake of blood
*
treading softly
how we entered
penetraliums of song
and swanlike
only the weapon that k**s
can save its victim
but the slow-dying king
denies himself the
right to
perfect freedom in the
upper sphere
he does not move
— his languishing is
nothing but
a trace of
blood and body
in a box
we learn too late to
love
our poverty
and the towering sun still burns
it sends its comets
on an errant path
across our city
strife
the boundless
never sets