Temple Temple, Walls And Doors

I am dank angel, ready wine, the anti-cure. An instance of guitar dropped on the desert. I am a rare crease in time. These hands, my fleeting fists, this continent. I have walked to the edge. This rusting freedom. Near the black door I hang my head, my father’s gun against the wall. These nails, this pre-grace, this balkanized love. I feel only wind, and my rag chestbone. My gaze and my jar brim with eyes and fingers. My apples, my boy fears, my sliding face and mouth, my quiet. I have no patience, no measure. I cannot open a tiny window. Witch of wet stories, you are my June muse. This island, my torn and dripping jaw. You are the western sun and the hot mouth of dreams. Neither can I hear you, nor slow. You are rough water, silent and plunging. I would watch you run, and hold you. When you stretch into an ancient, haunted creature, with crooked eyes and stringy hair, I will still press my ear to your mouth. I want to love you forty thousand years, 'til you are only beetle shells and sand.