In a battle with the roots
It shares with the earth.
Name written with flames in the soil,
Crimson beams at the end of the charred
Trail where the landed Spaceship finally
Ended its sight. Barrels of green thoughts
Taken from seas of it. Oceans that bleed
Red paint suns naked and risen
From the tide:
Covered with tribal, primal
Colors, pupils like red flames
In the centers of police sirens,
Fallen from the gray sky of a name
On a grassy knoll, sniggering at the silver drips
That fall from the clouds scraping together.
The wound in the back of the head.
That’s the apple core. I don’t need
A television to show me blood
Dripping from those inner seeds, darkening
The night that’s been ever since.
It glistens on the teeth with bits
Of moon stuck in them. It’s my external face,
The feeling that keeps trying to trick its way
Into controlling the heart of the beat; it moves
The moon across the sky on the end of
A fire poker before it pops and rains names,
