An owl in a ruined home feasting on ashes like bread,
I thirst for the waters of the reservoir of received wisdom
where the moon has bled.
Shotgun constellations whitening each of my eyes
splatter the array of misfortune freezingly saturating
the warmth of the October sky.
A river into which my pen has dipped, I have flown—flown
in the black of some terrible night—awoken cold-sweated
with no reason; a monster from my sleep shown
the way—from the milk of Babylon’s breast to the Andes
indecent with the wealth of descent—where I
now land and make my nest; and we,
reader and repertoire, unwed in a vacant theatre,
are casualties uncommon to the want wandering
men cannot swallow, but still eat here.
Witty and reckless, my kohl creeping-glance’s thick hunger
devours souls in unjust paradigms, dropping jaws
to swallow the great contradict.