Spread as a cloth across an altar,
onion slivers mist kisses of fog
over another dawn doctored by
an answer’s uncovering, a response.
In unsuturing its call, open-
mouthed cauldron-bowled whorizontals tar
from heavens of rafters arabesque
droughts this wounded sky scars, bleeding suns.
Read from top to bottom, fire authors
what column falls turmeric as bile
into the gall of his thoughts, trawled stars
pulled like amethyst shards through fists, blind.
Its due undone time, his cinnabar
in a more momentous clime bares light.
Behind veiled sight, piercing with sapphire
inscrutable eyes, prophesied to
carve from twilit knots of cloud day’s knife,
how in his priesthood this rite he flaunts.
Proud as crystal beheld penitent
in presence of an art’s angular
assailing angel, bent is the blade
strangled by prayer when his lips pronounce.
From beneath flaking gild he offers
toward that of golden rule above
reward for having returned afar
caravan colour to cover night.
Blinking alchemies flicker pulsars
his pupils always electrify.