Walking north on Lassiter Mill,
Late was black.
Icy rain arrived & rolled off the birch leaves.
I swore footsteps were behind me,
Or maybe the foreign voice of my sister,
Like rhythmic silence—
A heavy orange flame twirling in a perfect white bowl.
I screen my prejudices
& the strengthening scent of intrusiveness.
I explored breath’s expression.
I slept on its courtyard.
Shadows became the shape of my beasts.
I subdue the gimmick, sketch the fly
& let it begin.
I left that globe tenderly mangled,
A half-eaten Honeycrisp.
I modified my ritual until further notice.
I heard a pack of flutes invented
& my faith squirmed like a captured fish.