Ring of Thieves

Joan Miró, Woman and birds in the night, 1974

the voice at the fountain is not helpless
but hopelessly uncomplicated 
	like a toy silver bell
and its ring is not unfamiliar, but a vision
that sings like a daffodil, or better yet, a kiss 
that evaporates from the dark corner of an eyelid
like a chariot racing over a forgotten rainbow

there is a sin at the end of it, i’m certain,
a vice the length of a shoelace, the breadth 
of a habit that scratches our itchy feet 
while we’re half-drunk with sleep

{our eyes are a windowless portrait 
of a soul that’s cursed with the scent 
of its own shadow}

the sweet stain of abandon that lingers 
	on the cleft of every chin
no larger than an egg drop
great gig that kicks and jives
at the granite fountain of ancestral noise
	ensemble of dark soldiers 
	acid-dipped constellations
	deep carnal stars
on a fabled night pregnant with 
	possible inversions
like a planter that’s tipped and 
unfurled its contents on a 
	half-sunk moon

{if the earth was inside out, 
we’d all beam like mirrors 
on the surface of the sun}

i seek without patience 
i toil without understanding
i toll the bell at the soiled fountain 
	with the greediest of tongues
i search for a blood much greater than wine 
and find it passing between my
	own two lips

	{all that is human is sacred
	all that is holy is also unholy
	everything else is dogma}

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