Flame of the Archer on Sunday

there is smoke, or is it steam?
ground hot charred in places
bells sound in time with blood
my book, the gift, the simple thing.

what was I doing when this began?
rhythm of my ax keeping the time
one thing cut, and one remained
in the quick, the thick, and the mad.

some journey has brought me here
no chart of reference, nor a name
she knew, yet wouldn't claim the smolder
pouring light on me, making it clear

my feet dug in, and my head regained
heat in the wake behind me
how many hours have I slain this day?
curious now to know the refrain.

seed

seed i returned
scratch the ground
pierce my thumb
mixed with blood

roots that extend
leaving them untied
touch these hearts
secret home parts

fruit sway heavy
hit with mercy
feed the belly
return to me

the offensive

watching you take that skin
with the skill you mentioned before, lover.
crude and now removed

gods with the sunburns that you knew,
those gods that i endured,
making peace with each of them


licking the stamps when you sent them off
return our saliva to our mouths
they carried, in their caves, the mysteries


you whisper into the hall
like some holy wall in Jerusalem
the name that grew in the belly of that fool

I'm begging when I'm banging
on the bucket remaining
sensing wonder when I should be praying

I've decided to take my white,
pass through the arch
and sing you my song no longer

but you ponder, or maybe i think you do
is that cold closed casket of another
where the night becomes darker that you foster

never knowing in that shadow that lingered
never hearing in that moment of doubt
instead i leaned against the frame of the door
and fell out