Ache 18

18

for a poet to write
is an act of worship
& defiance.

Mind rather than touch.
I used to push
into a landscape of brilliant cardboard.

Electric foam shimmering
over mute crowds.
Bald spots in bobbing waves.

A little theory (that dissipates, whispering) of destiny.

/ /

Breath / worm / the god
of rotting gourds. Belly knot.
The hand feels truth kicking.

Birth-part, the umbilical
vine covenant
falls / a brittle
spring

into Gnostic riddles.