What is repaired, homegrown,
like Tartarus’ own, the make of the dead,
rise up, give Voice to thine own
resplendence.
I know that it is.
I know, as one knows
not anything, but
does, at least somehow.
What is material, is real,
I have gleaned reflected
in Death’s own very eyes
like fine glass coins.
Yes, Hades, your Dog,
and the thundering River
like an explosive artery,
I can compare you all to nothing,
but the delicacy and hoarse,
husky eyelids upon the temple
of the ground, strange body, vessel,
retains so much
that is lost
in the instant of thy touch,
the shattering bliss
of peeling rust blown off,
the smash and gush of
golden blood ablaze,
the old, liquified Sun
in our boiling veins,
the heat of the Earth, vibrating skull,
and Immortality a cup
to be drained
like a Moment of laughter.
09/25/2016
Richmond