Prayer-grown—

in the ghost-written tract

of your somewhere,

in the landscape

where you will not stand—whorl-bits

of ammonite

reinvent you.

They roll you along

with earth’s mock caroling

underfoot, scattering

the hundred-faced lie

that makes you visible. And from each

daylight blow, your hardness turns

to weapon, another slum

flowers within. (Prayer-grown—

the clandestine word, as though cutting

through the hand

that groped along these cave walls): wherever

I do not find you, the silent

mob that drifted mouthward—throngs

loudly into time.