I will reach into the clock, my hand through it like water
Visions were fine enough / but it was loneliness, in fact, / that they really wanted from me.
Sometimes I forget / that he counts sparrows and hairs.
Sometimes a sickness comes over me, / As though life itself withdraws, / And leaves behind a fragile shell
disposing of wine by pouring into fire. / / Lit purple, every face lifts
Oh to be golden, thick / and slow with heaven.
how your cerulean skin slides / across the eye, refreshes like the lid / tripped by light, sweat, wind, sex, / / or a speck of mythology settled / in the corneal bed
“One law for the Lion and the Ox is Oppression: Blake is trying to tell you one moral size does not fit all, ya’ll.”
I scrub mouse blood from the floorboards / Imagining ice, / Imagining throats. / The dead stay dead.