i. 
                         the seat            is upon us        again
solemn, yet      a reminder of death 

                        faith, love & forgiveness       

amplified by    stripes sheep, astray                and 
laid      thus     that sacrifice   unknown foe

                        pierced            six thousand    sons     on target
to         end      the       population 

the nation        pain is going on          active              over
the woods                    police conformity with law
                        gain failure  marked    as         Government

protect             each other       until     poses               threat 
to things that are not like        the revival       witnessed 

   dent, again               bright              on  everything 
            I           appeal to you, in the blood spilled on us   

                        ii.
            I           appeal to you, in the blood spilled on us   
come               lift       lives    into absence

wave    the       organisation    to         rise      tragically
mark    a          day      report a          stand

guard               the       breach disregard the   economy 
lives    steer    our       nation onto     path

fortune            is extremely troubling
wearing                       exceptions with           recklessness

            majority          gathers            to eat, drink, laugh      and talk
in subject to spite the huge dependence                      foreign regard

government forging    funds for development
short    is the   capacity to       finish 

come to life     have no doubt 
            God too shall pass       the battle         for the night

Crablike
it uncloaks
from itself—
removes
its own ghost-
ly paper. A leg
of mostly air
remains in air.
The hollowed
onionskin bulbs
where eyes once lay
look out on the field.
The din of it.
A new body
is painful. Exposed,
it must retreat
what was once inside
further inside.
Globe perched
on translucent needles,
the articulated twin
chooses tomb or home.
It violates a form.
Bud like a fist.
Like a thought
about to give
out. There is a pink
so clear and pale
a rose can’t
call it kin.
A dwelling clutches
close to itself—
Its what?
Its brief solitude
before welcoming
the traveler
to crawl
its repeating galleries
to wait in holy center. 
It drags 
the outside there.