Invitation to Glazed Street
Broken bats
in humble hearts
like wounded umbrellas.
I mean lamb,
my godhead,
aorta lover,
in saccharine night,
where slowness slouches,
rough molasses,
through thyme,
cries at the chronosphere,
where rainy stars blink,
blank hunters,
beating wings and chambers,
in the warmest wool,
where I,
it is myself I mean,
blinder than a bellows
whisper shining shadows
to the wind.
