I see
Ink-black lightning
Frozen, still
Against the
Television-static sky.
It sneers at
how small I am
And I flee it
To apophenic patterns
that shimmer
In piss-streaked hexagons
On the shower floor.
I have written florid stanzas
About the power of man
When faced with eternity
But there is nothing
Nothing
Nothing but me and you
And I mean
Really
Just the two of us
So deeply poisoned
By the intense certainty
Born of drinking the bark-blood
That sages and scholars say is
Spile-sweet, like victory
Just so long as
You ignore the dead.