Bleeding Coasts

(dedicated to Lake Bosumtwe and the Chief-Priest of Abrodwum)

sandgardens acclimate slow but

discard with limb and glass —

dreampaced silver

steam rises from the high ground

horizon noosecoiled for branding

iron baptisms

knowledge peeled from serpents with fruit knives and left for the rot

and the flies

now a scream in a burning microchip cityscape

now a phone number in a throne room

upright man dirt thirsty they say, they say sky rests easier on backs than heads walking

old world roads:

slim mythics, legless lions, red, no cobblestone

geometry skinned gods in banana shadows when the rain comes shouting its praise.

(the strays are chicken-chasing and the fields are mountain-bound under suns only ever new)