The Cave Battle

by the gut—to feel or fret the damages.
it wasn’t unreal. it wasn’t real.
I’m eating the miracle—everything I
met—living in my skull; the last
perfection, dragging my soul,
baptized in opposites; the force of
the estranged. back to countryside
liquor, a draught in the building, most
kept her closer—and she died to live
essence. too low to pontificate. too
abashed to care much. too aware not
to sense the imbalance: a person
gives nothing, no wiggle room,
expecting obligation – to make a
soul fret, to damage perception,
even of self – reverberation is met
with contempt. the falcon, the diamond
the breath/breadth, all getting lost, an
eagle inside of a phoenix, the dying
laugh – rings in bark, cedarwood in
brains, more of life – as given to
porcelain. touching would repulse us.
so satisfied. so disappointed. at some
point, intimacy is required. I’m
eating the miracle—everything I met
—living in my skull; the rising war,
plain indifference, to challenge with
fierce innuendo. energies in winds,
salacious activity, the Red Zone, the
cave battle.