by Adrian Shirk
no man mislikes it more than me.
You’ll want shadowlplay and heresy,
darkly featured, weekly prophets
switched and merging,
each buried with new hope.
Late riser on the top floor;
it’s fixing to rain tonight but
come long and short, it’s far
enough at best—
Our own blood, our jaguar love and
we, barbarians, infinite from mortal clay,
postpone. A patch cut from our Sunday pants,
a fist of dying guesses.