whining in the un-split-able dark
 and preternatural quiet
raining from the spires.      They terminate
in purple mists and tangled banks of thorns.
Heaven’s not a wooden pergola.
Saying at the end of the day    will not end it.
You want a turgid orange sunset and a gun,
so earn it.
They’re posting grades on the walls
of my skull this afternoon.      I build
backwards. I walk circles and coil,
in leonine terror be-fettered.     It’s better
to sleep on the roof in this weather;
tis a rain’s room in my heart.   I press the harp
between my burning thighs.   My fingernails
clink the crystal flute,      a spoiled scale.