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enjoy this Mark Fleury writing in the <6" x 9" 2012 ISBN# paperback book the 4-D Window			Enjoy this third book in Scars’ Mark Fleury poetry book series as a 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover or any linked text for the book the 4-D Window

enjoy this Mark Fleury writing in the 6" x 9" 2015 ISBN# paperback collection book Seeing Strangers			Enjoy this compilation book in Scars’ Mark Fleury poetry book (of THREE books!) as a 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover or any linked text for the book Seeing Strangers

Both Protected

Mark Fleury

Both protected,
We are one body,

Against red stars

Falling as rain,
Laughing, streaking down
The windows of a hearse.
Multiple lifetimes are reflected
In the face of the car door’s

Windows, lined up and opened
Into a warm engine’s arms. Unafraid
Of his own nakedness, the furnace
Of that tomb is as high as the sun.

I’ve been welcomed into
That cloud’s tree house, where
The fall leaves, like tiny flames,

Are gathered in the lap- plural,
Singular and possessed- of my ground.

I can look up to it as I drift
Like funeral pyre smoke in the furnace

Of hell’s chest. Meanwhile, the sky
Is freezing. Coins are held
Suspended in the sky’s
Unthawed blue like trapped fish.
They’re really just brain cells,
Each one containing
Its own burning building
For stars to melt in.

Funerals must have a fluidity
For the grief to flow through
Like me forever looking up
To devil, who saved me.
The sun is buried although high,

And burning a hole into
The psychedelic trap that is
The relationship between kindling
And fire, angled at the end of language,
Which can’t leave itself; so poetry
Is free from the exploitation
Of religious murderers.

The hearse I entered on
The passenger side was at the end
Of my own funeral service in the dream
I had where I thought that it
Was my time but wasn’t able to die.

Now that I’ve reached
The end of language in the back
Of my casket, the beam on the other
Side of the sun, devil

Is driving me home.
Meanwhile, because writing
Is just exposing what was
Already here, I’m feeling free
To do nothing.

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