The shore is holy
Under my lungs. I can feel the energy
Of love’s triangular-shaped
Battlefields, rented there, east
And north of our trip
Into the Sun.
The hunger under
Feeling is an evening
Made liquid. The shore is here,
In every radio.
I’d rather youth wasn’t a ladder,
Or even the noise of the deathless ocean
In your office’s north window air,
But all lakes have the same eye.
Neighbors are created, heroically,
From the deepest waters of alcoholism’s
Ache for land.
Every night’s fall is recorded here,
And every desk is near to the entrance of
A language-shaped opening. No one is like it.
Your numbness toward the nails of the cross
Negate the noise of evil mistaken for love. A sizable
Orange tree grove is next to the lamp on your right.
An igloo is in the basement,
Below an operatic voice’s yellow door.
Here Christmas has earned the right to have it in for
That surface of mental illness, if the cure
Is hatred toward all enemies of language,
Jailed in my Holy Ghost.
