The Ninth House

If I could only get you mountainside,
coax you over fire, repressions. I’ll leave

the lamp on, so your phantom fingerprints
shine while you’re gone. Lift blue veils,

screen through all the spheres convincing
themselves of invisible threads spiraling

around you, grasping for something none
of us can see, waiting until salt seas fade…

I’d give him any of the treasure held in murky
sand at the lowest elevation on this heavy planet–

I truly have small hands, tiny inception’s touch.
It’s the after-burn that repels this flesh,

burning that once was. I know there’s nothing
left to fear, only feel: dry bleached shell

hearts along the fort or stuck in the walls
like some Cask of Amontillado tribute–

Soil, seeds, guide me away from the drag,
coquina cement trying to make up for

the ugliness of permanency… Ocean
sand, lake sand, desert sand, none

of these are the same. Why are differences
so important? Aren’t we all trying to connect?

Defer shining obstructions to get at
the breaking storm clouds, evaporate…

And what else would condense onto
the ground except red remains of our love?


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