I will thresh the mind with both hands;
fingertips of golden afterglow to select only nuggets
of naked tranquility; to
throw rugged shards of infancy behind goose-like shoulders, to cede
this habit of bare toes on dust.

In overthrowing infamy,
brevity demands we be good in the mind, good in the body,
good in the soul—and what cements
into habit dyes the soul a certain color. It’s

primacy that’s colorless—
if I am of “a formal element and a material”,
thus may I be refashioned daily—
to be made into warm streaks of heavy sunlight

excavating dusty windows;
into the blue-swallow bird song that cuts the swollen air in half;
into the fragrance of crackling
oven bread that splits a dark mood. Infinity is primal; I
salute this death sentence of ours.


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