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.