Where is the blood the sky holds;
the papery wind that refuses ink.

What angels will the river find when it is lost?

I wear wings now, but I remember
the night of your hair, the moon
color of my fingers.

The gold is deliberate.

.

I want the blue flowers pinched from the root,
the proximity of your fingers to the
honesty of death, press them to my eyes
an offering of sky with the heaviness of water,
a blood to stain your innocence.

I want to know desire is not a false god

.

with a bottle of whiskey
and a rattle snake
I am ready to face
the sun
obliterating the dawn
into another blue sky.
I slide into my coat of crows
and fill my pockets with sand
so the past will always weigh on me.
Since I vacated immortality
or maybe I was evicted
the stigmata doesn’t itch and
the future isn’t so imperative.
But I still walk this land where the clouds
are too distant to even be a promise and the jack
rabbit steals what shade there is.

Night will come bringing dreams
of the memory of rain
of the ocean that was ours
of the salvation I lost.

.

I grip the silence of the knife,
a gasp of iron coercing a whisper
to blood born absent
of small meanings and an edge
too fine lost in your eyes

.