"Horny"

Sheer will blasts canyon walls,

this cliff face as last breath’s

vestige. Light the pyres.

One month dies

as another cracks its blossoms

beneath the kindling. One

note, held until. Another fire’s 

horizon: a lantern lit, 

orison or beacon.

A rune, a clarion, a shirt
of iron or hair protecting
only the heart for

what the hands do is none
of our concern.  The corresponding
blat in the fog comes

from far off, to the left,
from behind: Nobody knows
the troubles I've seen.