All roads lead
into the fog of God now
roads unwalkable in full flesh
or flower
so tell me, then,
what roosts what rests
on stripped branches
what annunciation, seed or less
who goes there
a pilgrim honed
to sacrum & scapula
a seraph of cast-off glands
and brown paper
with what and on what
shall I write this
with ink from a drowned rind
on water
on whited stubblefield
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