
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