Stolas

& Stolas partook of his
medicinal herbs, & he consulted the stars,
feet became claws &

wide his eyes opened in awe: chakras
blossomed & a marsh
he saw,

a Coleman stove & a cabin
built from logs & its doorway adorned
in precious stones. & Stolas

felt himself scroll sideways, flightless &
unfeathered from ruining bridges
in West Virginia--he knows no stars

are evil, no omens ill but rather
the manchildren are ill.  Run
away from home,

spend a few nights in the museum
of the bog--thundering & slurping,
the peat will hold you safe

as houses, for a thousand years
until astronauts cut open your stomach
to dissect the rat you had for lunch.