The ceremony’s
inner sanctum
is practiced death
within yours
yearning its way
into ceremony
crush the paper
in your fingers
scatter tobacco
for the waiting wind
“and it’ll last forever”
Culpepper says
though not where
and not for whom
their rush by lifting
the guts in their likeness
blood learning
their intelligent forms.
***
Spirit gets in
for better or worse
puts some form to work
any thought rich
with permutations
just squint along
the road as we walk
through the green
skies and blue hills
see, the way it is
where inside gets out
get a word out
and there we are folded in
walking past your grandma’s farm
under the father killing sky
that smells more and more
like Africa, now that you mention it
there was a Julius, Marine Engineer
who spoke German, or mother’s father
from Algeria–
things like that the words
come out speaking, suspicious
sun rising in unknown mind
unpierced ever with glitter of sun-ray
the blind hero shining loudly into hell.
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