My anguish smokes white when afternoons prompt
My anguish smokes white when afternoons prompt
when fixed eyes ask:
why does he warrant his gospel?
He is not the first to flip over the baked night
nor can his dance inherit the visible –
I hesitate –
for heaven’s sake, stars, stop peering:
do planets hunt mortals? Whatever,
inside the havoc I’ll hazard my shade,
against the undergrowth fudging my prayers
I’m earning disturbances across renewed light
and tasting Heaven, that tried flour –
just trying.