John Fry wrecked, solitary, there

when heaven was a bell rusted shut

around your neck, what you most feared
being lost or not belonging

did that dead bird have a name


not the desert without

but inside your within
salt scraped out inscape

being but an ear, some strange race


not spirit- but devil-ridden

was it grace that such sin should live
better for bones to finish knowing in air

than wander, a burning cloud


seared between earth and sky

mind gone numb
you intended to starve

where there was no lantern, no cup


dusk whisper where was this

inside tonight I need to ask
does daylight's always

fading feels like dying


dear damn element of blank

utterly mistakable ether
will shining be spilled

God how did you not plummet


if paradise lies

between a book's pages
beneath a mother's feet

scripture or rupture


was it written you asked

in henna calligraphied on
your face unwilling

swirls unable not to tell


despite all the ways to die

infinite as lines on your hand
in and out, compassion

you began to breathe


sun-spindled, stardust

in and out of you
Babel's son, brother dancer

syllable and sound


Back to 47.1