The audibility of my thoughts
is evident only to you, thank god �

centesimos dropped in a tin cup, the cry
of a wandering albatross. Within the herd,

the rumbling bellies of cows keep time
to Easterbells, force us gladly

towards this anti-evangelical asylum,
this space we coinhabit. Here, we value

the red burn of an astronomer�s candle
over the reassurance of pre-programming,

know the centuries will shed light
on every exhaustion, every purple

noncommittal nightmare. At the gate of women,
I could do without, but you�ve offered

a jaw�s atheism, an id�s beach,
the open palm of myself.

~