some strange neck of the woods cleared off,
the sawdust blown into the breeze,
like the Heart itself, alone,
except in Song.
as holes alone
in the fabric of the twilit Sky,
Time has grasped, and shaken,
deepened with the wilderness of black:
Twilight, old tomb
of ancient days
and future times.
Back to the ground, I clench my teeth,
the parasites chewing my gut,
doubt seeping through me,
fear flashing, coruscating along my spine.
I am pristine, an elixir,
a block formation, an army,
a pool of smithereens, of remnants liquified
by the blast and flood, the very rush
whose haste destroys all things
and lays the emptiness that's needed,
the foundation for only potential
out of whose readiness may spring, then,
in slow poems,
and horses, bred.