Haze lifting, the shifting AM static/Awaken to taillights melting in the fog/Vision snaps to a shadowed and expressionless figure/Flickering and looming black beyond the glass/Hands suddenly aware/On the wheel, rigid and swerving to the shoulder/Shake, smoking and helpless in the roadside dark/A rusty sob, or a laugh like bricks on pavement/Same wretched glimpse/Spiral into nightmare/Fettered to a corpse/A tether of atrocity/With traitor’s feet slouching on toward Bethlehem/Stealing coastward in unconscious hours/Gripped by magnetic impulse in reluctant flesh/Scaled, stygian muscle churning and thrashing on a hook/Bilious glow shimmering/Over the trees, neither dawn nor sunset/Foaming surf in clammy fingers/Clutching at uncertain earth/The dream will repeat/Fettered to a corpse/The afterbirth of a plagued and quaking cosmos/Slither out in its convulsions, trickling into ether/The sermon inscribed in our marrow, it is not god/An oddly-shaped silhouette and the shivering of a severed hand/Nailed to a tree.
—
“Et quid amabo nisi quod ænigma est?”
