This field has fallen
to the bottom of the gray
escarpment, day climbing to
dusk, footwork and the feels
stitched to the stage,
this old show, this ancient
gaze fixed upon a missing star—
the choir and the clockwork
elevate each urgency
seared into the flesh by
wheel work and wet work
laws and longings,
crowns and blasphemes
the story standing in the wind.
This is the night upon us,
this is the bumptious dark,
the flame hidden by
the hand, cupped palm
giving the fire life.
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