In your voice i feel a god growing in this land, 

an exquisite violence pushing through the soft
bodies of the dead. I am disingenuous in my
faith, my hands dissect remembered motions,
depleted and soon abandoned. I piss on the
flames, because I like to see the smoke and hear
the hiss of the choir.

I would kiss your lips to taste the formaldehyde

your heart rests in. Blood has grown rancid in its
roots, this winter’s stagnation long settled.
Whatever home there was never survived the cull.
Where do my bones rest, this ghost is weary
of the perseverance of hope in the graven image
of your face. Meager eyes seek abandonment, 
a piece of the holy land. I promise not to draw
blood but it is still corruption.  Look at it,
it is your murder.

Dark curtains of rain sweep into the mountains,

carrying the night against the dawn. There is no
gold to mend this.

.