You Know My Name In Secret

You know my name in secret. Upon the mountain,

you called as a single dove; above all else; all burnt

with flares in your feathers. Spare my eyes, I cried,

but don’t let me look away. The blossoming clouds

sent you away. Your voice echoed through the rocks,

and my short tale ended in fear, a wretching cough

for the time in the gaping, crumbling sediment.

Then a demon shook me from sleep, his eyes

red and human, his body in the armadillo’s

shape, crawling towards me with a deafening hiss.

Almost a voice, I yelped awake and ran to check

the locks. The dead meat of the fridge was gone

by morning after I fed the hounds and sucked

down alprazolam as if that will halt a vision.

A new bird crept on the branch when sunrise

came, but I refused to look. Leaving the door

unlocked, I jumped the train with unholy wine,

hiding in a corridor deciding what crumbles:

buildings or atmospheres? Who are you?

I hear a smoking voice pawing at the door,

as if my own baptism would bring quenching

fire that no one but my fellow passengers

could see. Come near, bring water to worship,

whiskey to emulsify the acids in your knees.

Stay for the rockets on this unnamable holiday.