Wirra

I am half-deaf

of my own din;

half-dead of drowning

the

remnant of

my love

wrist deep

in your eye socket.

Memory-monger

your streetlamp reveals

nextdoor
the orange bloodswollen
dancers
with grunting
ears,

the moon’s wrinkled breast
sagging into
my wet
cheek; and

by the sidewalk
those tongue-tinctured
blooms
like
red
fingertips.

Love Chant of the Wild God

under a chain of jagged stars
with gray bent filaments
I have washed myself with Shaol's sweat,

listening to
a starve-ribbed god throwing out red limbs
and humming low
a sappy tune.