…drink the dusk in your flute
And let the stars map the universe
In your stomach.
It is dark there where the gods let,
Everything takes its course.
There is little direction –
Save for here
And now. Each year
by the closed curve
The planets make pilgrimage for the Son.
We rush to kneel before him as infidels
who tongue-cut
repent.
Pray the punishment, swift.
The sun licks ours spines as slave master’s whips crack flesh.
It is forbidden to rear your head up,
eyes cast low upon the hawk lest risk blindness.
We plead; slide your fingers over our lips. We will toss off,
hence forth, again into the world yet this time with good gospel.
What strange missile, this ellipse,
boomerang back to your lap as it is
always.
