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

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