that last line
as you define me
in [instru]mental intrigues. .

artist as doctrine,
and all along your mind’s
.edges i slide along, peering
over such earthen formations

of held.hands,
desert.lands,
wing.spans
wider than
any legs.spread

that last line. ......
i read your words like epitaphs
in my own oblique sunlight, the way
you [de]scribe my dragon flyfall;

i lick that last line across my lips
with the skinnedslick of paintings. ..
where the creation of
my [he]art takes
place,
looking,
deeper,
into,

darkness;

i feel like a Caravaggio in velvet
draped volition of di.vine shaped time....
but that last line
i cannot decipher, such is
the t.oil it took to tarnish
my flesh,

how is it you make me sacred?

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