ender

my face is a cage

and the doves inside are suffocating

in a pile of their own shit

my arms are broken wings

and their featherless forms are useless

in the mud,

in the dirt,

in the silt,

in the pores of the earth,

with the worms,

the moles,

the bugs,

what is the meaning of it all, anywho?

is it part of some grand scheme, some astral plot

to make us whole again

some day far from now?

perhaps, on the contrary, there is nothing;

are we born simply to exist?

there is a crack in the eye of man

like glass, the light in the fracture

is split like the millions who came before it

never to reform

its tongue flicks at me.

out of the puddle of saliva rolls a pearl.

it dissolves.

what does it want from me?

it slithers away, back to its damp home.

i once saw the face of god in the stars

which grinned as it opened its mouth wide

and its dust cloaked the earth

and its light drummed upon the ground