I like that I can see what you can't;
you, outside yourself,
patterns swirling in the dust of dreams,
lights out, lights on.
Naked.
Unassumed, unassuming.
Touch me if you dare;
I am perched upon
the setting sun
and the moon, alive, unincubated, ready to seize,
ready to conquer,
ready to tarnish.
One, first, tarnished and tattered,
lines between lines;
waves move between your legs
until crystallised
a liquid lake, lapping between blurred river, burnt soil,
heart frozen for me, one microsecond apart,
beating,
a beating,
a sounding,
a perpetuating.
Four, five, six, seven;
all of us, altogether, all under heaven –
all under the wraithful, the bitter, the scorned,
those who watch, leering from the trees,
scathing, corroded, bent backward until all that can be screened,
is a scrying, crying abyss.
A maw that cannot stop being fed.
The thrust of amber lightning, buried beneath the earth
until the time is right
to see with both thine eyes:
what under heaven,
and under shadow of lighted night,
hell cannot help but wrought.