Map To Agony

I made a thick map to agony where
blackbirds fly with molten wings,
cackle over swart prattle;
corrupted gut remains.

But, I cannot go.

I am busy.
I am Feeding on seeds of raw season
ardor.

Piles of sediment – particles soaked in grief – had been
heart raked,
sowed deep down inside hollow ground.
Alone with dark space.
Rooted.

In ten years, never could I have plucked up
as easily.
A sanguine, green gaze lifts rust cakes
from my wrists,
then my ankles,
then my eyes,
then my smile.

Then, I am moral.
There, I am valued.

Agony is an old white pillow that I
spit pneumonia on to.
It is Elvis Presley in fake fever morning.
It is six am deer fly kicks.
It is curled up on hard washroom
floor board.
It is repulsive reassurance;
malnourished.

I made a determined map to agony, where
nothing suffices,
dead things grow more dead
under night’s greasy carnivorous sweats.

But, I cannot go.

I am busy.
I am busy planting luster

with a green gazer,
with flexible wrists,
with fleshy eye-lids in restful reassurance.
I am nourished.