in praise of a night of perdition

& what do we say to the boy
                   digging the sand to find his love?
the earth is for grief and its fullness thereof.

for some strange reasons, a part of him
is enough to build a tower.

gracelessly biting his tongue,
he provokes the blood out of its hiding.

in the canal of his needs, he leaves
the language of want redundant.

                                                                            across the crimson,
                                      the flesh exposes itself to light.

this hour, the stars are trumpet sound.

& there is a river throwing its face
against the bank.

& for every rain, there is a betrayal
for waters lending the soil their body.

& for he will fill every emptiness
with wings. even air will lose its skin.

he transits into a weapon.
he rules out the boundary.

& the beast wanders out of his palms.

                                                                   but who is the boy?

spinning the dust into a song,
he preludes his knees with feathers.

one time he is a bird, another time,
he is a reed.

his throat unhusks.

he has many rivers for a voice.