I came across a sort of star
or moon based prediction that said
talkative, big, horse, g
[g] for key, the piano on the front porch
played in a thunderstorm
the trees harvest the fog and
we the AC-- spiral the fans until
the clouds eat the sun
spiral the fans until the clouds eat
the light at a slow pace
I was eating the sun
and it was light a slow pace
he never gave the light divine attributes
but shed it on the other thing, suspended
yellow pages for maché or pranks
the sun got numberless and radiance multiplied
color became an interior red
koolaid in dark green
June with death in it
the angel entrance to the elk path
you enter top right and cruise
the place for proof of life
something unadorned worth circling,
a round envelope of emergency contacts
and other types of angels
supine, ascendent
for years it was you who captured my attention
but now that grip is loose, and my attention
has shifted to the years themselves
my free will redistributed
and when my love gets beneath its word
and liquid, I can delete you, finally
draw your name for whole clocks
every pain and every joy, every thought and sigh
this spider and this moonlight between the trees
would you not curse the demon you spoke thus?
