Blue Marathon

climbs the timber limb anatomy of Saturday – sit perched on the last pinnacle before
whimpering to all of his Gods, and all of yours, that if only something would happen
then he might be saved.

and this salvation looks different from here
less lust and iridescence. to the touch of his yellowed fingers
feels like the scales of a forgone species –

the red head fountain grass pouring through the roar
of gravity unwed from a larger star’s pull. there is music to
this now and he clamps his salivating palms  on whatever
will hold him

these vulgar storms – all clap and furs-
arrive with the trudge of an unfed army. gales inked
in violence and indigo.

under this choking sky – beneath its forked light-
sits with his fresh indignity
learns the vessel contained in its howls
and blushes against the wrath
of this
new
defeat.

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