in the way planets cast shadows & nettle blisters skin
Nicholas Alti
at the foot of the hill, one who wishes in quiet
for a glint of reassurance in a haunted bucolic
so not like sundogs (nor coronas) how daylight
bathes us via some faraway melting
citation needed, maybe, how six moons
make one whisper
how one wisp can mend embers
I’ve never quite thrived but I know I’ve had hopes
like dreams reduced to angles & resin
seed which spills in hopes for resting
I’ve poured full my organs with muddled nettle
topped off with tonic to fizzle
I’m cupping liquid to colossal my dripping
eventually body becomes turbulence
an entire night of insects / sacrament in small chirps
& intermittent quiet
& intermittent quiet gives in
to the moon mounting with ire the sun
some new song about dark
but I too pretend anything is a beginning
even the fog of my breath in the empty morning
even the dent in my head in the empty mirror
even the crescent of moon dangling due north
the way it hooks like a wound on the cranium
from a stochastic tumor’s removal
I can’t recall what astrology says about it
then again I can’t recall how prayers end
or how to block heaven
with my own little handful of sin
now I’m left there before the hill like a cross without worshippers
I’ve sung so many songs for fire I’m belching ashes into trade winds
I’ve left behind no ulterior motives: I melt & melt consciously
here I am, condensation—or, even, the tongue
that caught the first drop of rain
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