they carry His book

the wanderers have descended on the city
nickel-eyed with knobbly hands extended
to touch the wet stone and black iron
that winds along the streets
with faces concave, they preach
they hover, laden with a delusional certainty
that makes my bones cold
the wanderers become still
fanned out, beyond the yellow line
who are you to say, oh devious shepherd of the blind?
for to me, the greatest evil minds are tame
beside your incestuous and unwavering claim of wisdom

not asleep

i got out of bed to write down a thought
but in those moments it faded
too quickly to call back.
it had all settled so perfectly in the dark
words pressed tightly against one another
me, saying, yes that's it exactly.
but now all i can recall
is reaching high on the tips of my toes
to fill in a piece of an enormously grand mural
curving overhead like a massive sky
and making a sparkling promise
to pull the paint from the ceiling in fistfuls
and throw the bits of plaster overhead like confetti

its my beloved, my precious paramour
when the wind blows so riotously
as to force a gasp
and rain dampens down
every one of my embellishments
when slick strands of hair
stick to my skin like capricious ink
and my most fervent wish
is to abandon sight and forfeit thought
and to feast on the most uncluttered joy
of a dismantling torrent of rain
and a breathtaking eruption of wind