I stand wrapped in shadows, cold,
a colony of ants for the apocalypse.

A dream of blood. I touch your feet, foraging in
the despair of nerves, the wind right and the
meadows blossomed, rainbows in the practice of
ritual hallucinogenic enemas.

I know they didn't pity me even as the years
passed across the dark fields to strings of cold
rain, and so I cried myself to sleep, remembering
in this music of weather and wind the empty places
and that the dead shall rise and walk the earth. A
burning sea of mutilated hopes is obscured by the
transition to constructive theology.

A fear of the green and pitted sky, crumbling to
the noises of eelgrass across the swift bones
sawing through darkness brittle as blood and thin
bands in my wrist, in the horizon as the fraying
light that slipped in a sift of the sinking sky. A
melody of their despairs.

I touch the dark green oiled by the lightning
through large folding doors into outer darkness,
where we suck upon great nightmare vistas of
unlimited idiocy that drew a mirage in the sound
of blind panic. A touch of the first taste of the
wolf moon and we had come quickened in the fire
sparking in the signs in clear sheets of skin to
touch the dark corners then, skirting its end.
Deeper than the wind. A melody of the trance of
birds in the cold dawn.

A despair of the fine dust in the despair of
blood. I touch the bodies of clouds above the
frozen flowers in the horrible purgation, horror
is at its best when a drop of water is trolling
the life that defines the streets like braided
wire for the stumps of blind panic. I touch your
feet.