Graduating to Wet Stones

The Choler of Light I Chanting Matins 6a.m. as dark as my eyelids, shroud over stars, the stale tongue, aurora in motion, gesture after gesture of insufferable light, and the rooks chained to the tree tops, like little monks chanting Matins. The dog is restless and shifting, pacing before the door, I let him out, watch as vestments of fog process across the lawn. The dog whines for breakfast, the day begins to open, like red-lipped tulips that bow and swallow wafers of sun. And I devour breakfast like a sacrilegious death that God concocted. II Vespers Something boiling in the air, an aura of magma. I confess, all day I've tried to construct a new identity and now the sun sinks to wreak it. The horizon bleeds sucks on its lip, those wide red lips, before disappearing. And I wonder about this blistering season, and a reoccurring daydream of eating the sky like an over ripe apple. But first I'd like to find my old sun dripping with absolution, ask it: "why am I still here, and who is accountable?"

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