This Dithyramb

Description: Jazz (digital painting)

on the tip of my tongue
I am this small town (divinity shapes our ends
living out a man draped slackly across life
--my soul is
a fat skeletal muscle without guidance
(a little pink peasant blouse

This song cuts all at once
religion ripped of hocus-pocus
(the coldest wind--that's what it does to you
burning out Hamlets until it grows
(we become whatever we touch
a clearing in the woods
like a loose child
a pattern
almost too dark to see

I live life as if I've never existed and never will (the long squeal of a saxophone
in this sacred grace (but summers end, things change