Give unto feet their water; watch
people savor their figures on film.
My lyrics before death were written
on parchment long ago. It’s time to
undo this rodeo town: suck the glue from
my road, erase the lawn in my garden,
unsew the bait I have mistaken for luck.
My anchor pretends a hope that keeps
the sky awash in blue. Enough guilt
from this fist made of rubber:
Camus must meet his Kafka;
Kundera will wash Haushofer’s back;
Cassandra seeks her mother Wolf;
black scent pervades and sweetens the room.
My estrangement burns and falls away.
I mix it with dough as bread for the masses,
an antidote grain. They throw themselves
apart. If I were you, I would wait for me.
The dispersed crowd gathers round to
wish away clarity and chant for new
instruments of attention. Hair grows from
my chest. People speak in hybrid tongues.
Rivers rise, coercing the moss to share
its lightning and we each become electrical
timings in the bioluminescent show.