the wedding wrings
worry their arrival
they are not yet come
not even thought to
go forth to depart
from a heaven full
of wandering
yet i am to ready
the hall in a cloud
of flowers
the thief wings black
in the shadows behind
me
a golden chalice on the floor
filled with piss
i shoot at a slant
my bones are printed on
the ink of age and a waterfall
of popping haunts
me
i pray
i will be more
wither the hair on my head
parch the paper of my body
but don’t take me
a box of dust before
the saints
