Another poem for the wondrous oracle meme.
restless, sweating at the touch of old gods, I
lay tangled in the dawn of sleep, fretting
my pillow, dreaming of places where the wind cries
through the open arms of broken statues, seeming
insubstantial, shaking with fear
at the saw-blade terror of avatars
walking like madmen under foreign stars
uncomprehending of what loas rode their hands, breaking
glass eggs, world eggs, cracking the gold yolk
silver-limned on the table-top,
unable either to falter, choose or stop
the terrible march of their red guns, blackening
the sky with stone towers, falling like tears
or waterfalls, down
the deep gullies of our throats and eyes
to mark the ruination of these years
and on waking
I was left whole but altered, hollowed out,
the inner spiral of a nautilus shell
behind each gleaming eyelid.
all was well.