Force a flower from a branch like a dead god come
back. The king is about to announce there are no
cracks. But a hundred bucks says that thirst-trap
snapping Jolene will one hundo percent be long gone,
asap. To prevent dreams of the dead, touch the forehead
of the corpse laid out in the living room. Carry a pitcher
of water through a doorway, explain to me what a ritual
is. I’m aware of the body and its dangers, I keep a crock
of gallows cream by the side of the bed. My eyes glow
in the dark like a glistening blister. Careful! Their glister
could be catching, but you never could hold
The storehouse is stocked. The tower calls out
to the hawk— I’m here, I’m here!
Image: There Was Perhaps a First Vision Attempted by the Flower (1883) by Odilon Redon, via Rawpixel.