From Plague Nights
NIGHT 749

Purpose redirects here.

Your throat
an idea of proportion
held by a doubtful god.

In the galleries,
sacks of broken toys.



NIGHT 752

I am a knife in your silence,
drifting
bright-voweled
towards the King of Maps.

Or, I want to be.
Me with my beautiful hands.



NIGHT 848

I thought about leaving a cairn
in the forest today,
on the mountain’s
north-facing slope, but I didn’t.

That was my holy work, today:
not to leave a cairn.
First
knot in the long string of God.



NIGHT 855

Tooth torn from the world’s root.
Do you wake it
like a baby, or shut it like a door.




NIGHT 856

My faith in engines gleams
in you.
Eroded anchor.
Breath misplaced at dawn.



NIGHT 966

Zion is, after all, definite.

I come away
from the sun I outlived.

No, those aren’t
burns, they are alphabets.
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