vale quest
*Lusting on the tongue as you taste the vanishing edge of Lent,
as you stare down the hallway of a circular, binding building,
while the mystical sculptures with their peaceful faces begin to tear,
and you see the face of something lit by an ember in its home.
The trickling triple of the travelling stars hangs too low,
and you start to hear the horns from somewhere far below.
The blistering, godly, hymnic breath begins to lather—
crying the blood of good from the clenched fist on the cross.
Sending the half-matted air of the hallway into bursting light,
punching through the pasting layers of time,
as your baby-self begins to wail like the glorious holy
up there in heaven, symphonizing into the memory of when—
when things did not eat each other,
and the god of the secular time did not feast on the holy
of the unbinding, blind universe;
summering in the sun as it shone down in a singular
ending of words in the middle of the night.
When all the light has left the world,
the temple of Him begins to bellow
with the glistening stars of three in the morning.
The blasting shimmer—like beautiful cut glass—begins to send
the face of a man with long hair and a beard
and ever more eyes,*
left saddle
pastel briar
sweet inlet