the it
Rope wrapped around its neck, on a willow branch
suspending it just above the dirt in shadow.
I almost got hit by it, but dodged its swinging remains
and squatted far enough away
from his leaking flesh, and broken ribcage.
I was by myself, shocked, and the fallen it,
its burnt, crusted flesh and flesh-torn bone
in raging red, screamed downward into the earth,
and was consumed. When, from the supernatural,
He rose into a bright shadow.
I crouched and tip-toed, as I recall,
looking up into his soul, and entered . . .
And just a night ago, crouching in a dream
under his soul again, I entered, and there,
in this hole of stillness, at the suspended
center of form, in his skull,
I collected his light, but the human
understanding of color, the sunset’s gold and tangerine,
the rose’s red,
the star’s collected white.