A saint is divided

An ethereal emission devoid of all light

winds its way upwards

And it’s of a different order than

the rocking and rolling

and stirred up sawdust

Doll’s eyes fixed on a cicada shell

in the corner

Each night another flake has fallen

Only you could reverse

the order of things,

discard your intestines

 

Float on a stream of collected claws

and twigs and pressed flowers

Stripped of their cause,

an enlightened void

in the disembodied hours

A transcendental game of chase

You’ve taken their names away

You’re setting the grooves in place

But deep underground

they’re gathering around,

dressing your flesh for the fire