• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 11
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It’s darker than the bowels
of a blind man’s eyes.

The rain has fallen like a kiosk
worn around man’s body

like a crown – around
instead of upon –

and the songs of a silent calendar
hang on a spotless wall

finding rhythm with the lightning
outside. My stable is a pile of hay

with an unsuspecting hair of gold
spun into an incorrigible mess.

I have been given a needle:
the eye the size of a passage

through which humility may walk.
Search for the strand

and stitch my sight to devotion
in exchange for human robes.