Between winter and spring, dripping sap
From its sinus to nostrils, the moon shines
Underneath the heat of summer like a honeycomb.
My brains are breaking instead of hearts or bread.
My tablecloth is an American flag, scattered
With the teeth of enemies.
In front of me, rolling, gentle green hills of graveyard
Crosses, extending for miles of your eyes, ends where
Sight touches stacks of money from the sacrificed
Poor for the bloody, grabbing hands of the rich,
Taking flesh and bone right from the inside
Of your open, waking mind. The key fits the center
Of my lungs, raked with their own fresh soil to die
Their own flames down. Only I can see how far
The fire has spread, and through whose head and bed.
The wind gusts the blaze up a hillside, in the fevered
Foreheads of fire and light; consumed and clarified,
The diamond of my third eye is opened.
