With the earth poised between abyss
and immolation
we might divide our time,
open it up and travel the length
of the seam
full exhale and stop
pet the ravine, its rough slants
and hollowed out depressions
full of bracken and what not.
Let's take the tiny cuts
to our palms, tears which
sting and numb, but multiply
and refract like a bug's eye
the bull's-eye of reasons
stacked up ready for slinging.
If we reposition the demarcation
of who is 'in' on the secret
and who is secreted, who shall bless
the ground with the bodies
of the sacrifices
with the stories which unconceal
the secrets of the bodies
in the covered ground?
Precisely none,
the rote air rising
like fire between us--
disappear. We are the bodies.
Descend. We'll take the blackening
veins, the viscus, breath
we'll share the meal in the cleft
one hand gripping for dear life
the other passing the butter.
Here in the now of the time seam
which splits for us
only us, cradled in grey the vee
wherein we cling
to a hope a principle of hope,
like a music lighting
the handholds in the rockface.