They follow me by stomping on the newborn quest
and watch their steps as if an abyss glares out there.
Beneath the Roof of Lord, inside the moving chest
they wash themselves with warmth, dispel a froth of air

from carmine chalices. As prayers – pain composed.
They’ll bathe in gold, in my strip-worded out-of-sight.
Some try to fit what fallen glories rarely clothed
by crumbling on the Holy Table loaves of light.

The muse of being cornered makes ears sharp as fangs.
I catch – how rains are kneeled behind the window glass,
how Pisces Constellation in a fish soup tangs,
in sleep & milk the body grindings thicken fast.

I open all my wounds for those who are betrayed,
who’s burned or plays with matches, in the blaze of grief.
God looks inside of me the way that screaming fades
and I could feel how I become a falling leaf.

I leave. My swirling drop lands on the Land of Gray.
I’m thrawn and scorched, as made of muddle-headed clay.
My flight was over lives, myself, and through the flame
of all I gave to sons, for what I’m proud or blamed.

I lie down stretched, the blue runs over me and drips,
whilst in the color of the veins the trickling wraps.
As seized up fire, voices soften moves of lips.
They shake up shades of my ancestors step-by-step.

13 January 2010