It’s rare that I can hide
The kiss of language, even under
The glue that holds the
Religious zero to its bedrock,
Where evil is a tidal wave,
Instead of thoughts of yesterday’s
Joy that I can’t make kept love;
Breaks from molds, hurting the earth
And re-inventing the zero. Joy is in
Lungs, the house that’s outside
The remains of a knight in shining armor.
Sunlight, where it’s orange, has a
Nastiness that treads on the remains
Of anger, cited for years in trials in your head,
Kept idle, not by language, but by your nose’s shore.
And the nests that die are orange, red and kneeling.
Knife’s edge in between the redness of the
Sun’s training to be night’s angry red nose ring.
Orange lake dying in its bed. The rape of nighttime
By an angry red, rusty nailed devil on
Your deck’s mysterious, innocent sunset,