Here is the wanderer, heaving

His unwrapped soul and his parcels of pure voice.

Oh cloud of unravellings,

Root-hairs of the saints descending

Into the sorcerer’s night with obsidian tools

Of silence, to root out the uneaten ones,

Food for the thought which is never thought.

Take a flint egg, hatch it,

Take a mouth that hasn’t spoken for a thousand years,

A mouth of night, mouth of Simon Stylites

When the devil made his tongue into a bird’s penis.

Take a handful of syllogisms, eat them.

Sit with the patience of gasoline,

Until after the last bomb has consumed its name;

And then, in a voice that is an hourglass,

A voice of the scissorings of time,

Bless the earth, bless the fire.