After Bach’s Mass in B Minor
Dripping toward earth diagonal
chromatic
this blood from flesh
to wood
to soil crimson charcoal rivulets
all of us
inchoate sagging
falling loping toward decay
save me
from the horror of my skin futility of labor
love’s sterility
mind, bifurcated
pierce me
staccato nails
with your sulfur shocks
resolve me
into your opaque octaves
reap my core of being
it is ripe and yearning for your scythe
will we ever be free
from our burdens
years wash away
blanched, hollow as bones of birds sour sky
rice water
we speed down an eternity of highways
vast, vapid
scalding, sordid
toward our demise
all that is left gravel and grease ink of rubber coyote’s crumpled fur
here I stand
at the serrated edge
where youth crumbles
resurrect me
with flutes with strings with silver milk
with blossom dust of crape myrtle
won’t you align my soul
with your symmetry
Rembrandt