Saklas

Sing, fool, sing to me,

the shadow of the centrifugal

serpent. Angel to angel,

faceless face to form

and space, come with the fire

to swing the sphere into focus.

If in our song, you’ll permit

a field to crumble into weeds,

may the oil burn at midnight

as well as at the bloody sunrise.

By then, our shirts will be dry

and the cities will call to us

in shipless drowning gestures.

They’ll know then the fixtures

were never fixed nor stern.

Your motion is your negative

gorgeous twin vision of night.

For me, the moon unhinges

on the brink of demonic dispute,

something for my six lost sons

to pull towards their barren chests.