"I would be Jesus Without a cross to prove me." A. Sexton
You, kind sirs, tore the gaunt border down Daily. Music, the bells, gone. Drowned out in symbolic form & in single view; uncovered Lens, black holes, black dens, the last, lost Raptures... So I will go now Without knowing my best route Distance wildly inaccurate. My feet, dry, cracking, gold leaf Underfoot, footsteps up steep steppes. My clothing walks back to me. The waiting a story: unknown Girls, skin on lost roads, the tavern Wall. All making a living; Aeschylus, the Oceanides, Faustus The Furies: walking, rowing, bearing A torch, observing falling stars. The truth & the dead know curses Profane for gods who weep deep, The fortress old, doors weathered & still. Born the unnamable nature of Holy hows unexplained, we die Awake, horses beaten to fever. With no safety in place The hegira abides.