Act I

the wind blows rough
from some place in the core,
where a wilder thing rages
and the bottoms of leaves show
lighter than the tops, to tell –
a storm is coming from afar
and he has lost his shelter to the horizon

Act II

with the heavy hiss of a 3 a.m television
far and faded in another gone-away time
the rain falls fit to tear off this skin
that a raw, new man might be revealed
through pain and rebirth
pulled fresh and breathless from the womb
of a different, darker mother


pray that in the scented after-shower eve
his breath might cry forth to the world
in small and ragged bits of a life no longer dead
with no sign of Hell left to him but save perhaps
a bright and endless fire in the faraway eyes
that speak of torrid times best left buried
and tongues best left tied to the vines they grew

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