Strawberry blonde pixie cut. Modest summer clothes.
James Agee Park. Raucous laughter and parties elsewhere.
No escape. Nowhere to run. Demiurge has sealed every exit to heaven.
We drink hot coffee from a thermos. We talk of the stars taken by false light.
I am at ease with her, not chasing a dragon.
The night is sweltering. We are alone. Racket goes on on all sides.
Still, some stars remain. She said in undreamt of time she came down.
Her face painted over in memory. Her words sewn to other mouths.
The coffee is hot and bitter. July is the maggot squirming in the corpse of grace.
Silent now. The coffee the sweetness of admitting it’s fucked.
Angels and prophets speak quiet when nothing is quiet
Her still voice rings in my ears. She says let’s go for a ride.
I get on the Vespa behind her, hold on tight.
A star leads to a birth that has every chance of having it’s voice taken.
She has spells and tattered grace, the Demiurge has all the cards.
We fight on, all hope lost.