My heart is a woodshed

I can pull the logs out of the fire

of emotions

and build a pilework

against anyone trying to get close

This body is a sensory wonder

that I try to lay aside,

for the benefit of insight

and Mr Kite

My thoughts are cinnabar, ocher, gold

through the light

of firing synapses

and Inger Christensen's
Valley of Butterflies

I hear the hooves of tinker Moses

in the snow

under my bedroom window

as the 6th of January

is being encircled

by Anna's longeing

I can feel the hands of the crew

of the hearse

lift me out of my future

when I'm but the dead weight

of remains,

hoisted,

hauled into the fire

at the end of the line

that J. Cash and I walked

The Earth trembles

in a swarm of stars,

and pain travels, uneasy,

up and down nervous systems

The Moon bathes in silence

in the starry be-bop glimmer

of Charlie Parker

and The Horsehead Nebula