The language of walls.

Or one last word—

cut

from the visible.

May Day. The metamorphosis

of Solomon’s-seal

into stone. The just

doom of the uttered

road, unraveled in the swirl

of pollen-memory

and seed. Do not

emerge, Eden. Stay

in the mouths of the lost

who dream you.

Upon thunder and thorn: the furtive air

arms

the lightning-gorse and silence

of each fallow sky

below. Blood Hebrew. Or what

translates

my body’s turning back

to an image of earth.

This knife

I hold against your throat.