The angry Gods do not
wine we sacrifice to them.
feel so lost, so very superfluous?
Get over it. Just listen to the hum
Of glossolalia in the paper head,
fat and purple wasps half-spat across
field to blondies hair and brothers red
Feathers. Ah, tongues of burning Pentecost
Will not serve anybody any good.
vipers gossip in the kitchen garden,
Brown moths put out the light, the color of wood.
A beetle died on the patio, a demon
Broken open, an empty fortune cookie.
voices answer me: Wrap up the past.
the pupas face. Dissect the tree
Of bone, and scalpel down the tongues red shaft
Such painful mercy, the sting we needed most.