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We are garlands
Hung on the crown of death
Bursting ephemeral worlds
With the exit of our breath

We are the blossoms
Of no one
And the blossoming
Of nothing

We are bereft of garden
Or gardener
The blossoms nobody shelters
Housed in blood, in mud, and in glass

In the rib cage
Of the broken body
That houses this age

Between the silence
And the pounding waves

We are driftwood
And we are dreams
Born of longing
Born of death

Our fingers and senses
Torn and displayed
On the five-pointed
Wheel of the world

Bleeding out into endless
out into nothing
I suppose

We envy the flight
Of the birds
For whom god is not dead

And we envy the plight
Of the stars
For being too far
To think of divinity
At all…

Inside of flesh
Flesh peering back
Into the lack
The pain of new birth
In your eyes heaven
In my hands the earth

Beyond the horizon
Of the ideal
Lies the wound
Of the real

Of the real…

We envy the flight of the birds
For whom god is not dead
We envy the plight of the stars
For being too far
To think of divinity
At all…


from [a lantern carried in blood and skin], released July 29, 2008


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Apocalyptic Americana

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