sour wine (first light).

His scalp, the field

on which the thorns
plowed, now gather their yield.
Down along his temples,

speaking the skin

open with their sharp
incantations, callin’
like a darkened harp,

out of crackled surface

the first gush of sap.
From a heart drunk
on death

the hot cut veins spat every tap

in deep tremors into the universe.
The thorns, they gathered their wealth

the thorns they gathered the drink
still poured down my throat.
The thorns, they plowed


drops of God.














Photo: Unknown


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