Playing The Meta Game

Photograph by Игорь Сергеев

This is my only threat
an empty page.

This is the new
escape to be divine
or to divine answers
to questions unpacked.

(We are here. Folded.)

I saw a desert in a fever dream,
the raw red rock shot straight up
the bowl of my people.

I see meaning in the curves of a vase-
move my line lengths to show you the way.

I can show you how my monsters devour,
their demon teeth run in rows
deep, like a mirror facing a mirror.

We hide over a vowel,
under the constant consonant
to practice perfect enlightenment
or rehearse the verbiage to a “t”.

(What are we when we are in our skins?)

Not free from our faiths but free of our faiths.
They will collide, a friction of pockets on a gravel road.

We turn away from the page to breathe.

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