The spirit is invisible to the eye,
like a sensitive onlooker
riding a gradient transparent
literature horse
through a sunset of barely
discernable light,
that bolts into slower,
purer, sightlier,
buzzing prongs
to unload the long-legged
single fading note of an animal,
deaf as a beetle.
it is a voice that I see;
the voice that spells out
what we all want other people to want,
how we want certain events to
occur in our own limbs
which may or may not hinder us
like covering a lot of ground in one day
that we are so tired,
so tired that there is city-gunk
upon our compositions;
our “face paint”
for “human approval,”
the fire in our eyes,
in our hearts
where the flames need splashing.