Finally I have patched
the sky. I have pushed through the sheets
of black confetti raining
down despite our prayers to stave it off.
The big wheel keeps on turning
& I find myself blistered by the sleet
of the Beyond. Roads here made of silver
instead of clay, haven't been home
in a year or more & yet I wonder
who among you sees this
city slivered into strata of light
like a giant parfait. A procession
of suns swerve & dip
into the meringuey rings of clouds.
Let the stinking cities of home
fall to dust; I am going away
into the Shambhala of my art.
Keep my crook & my cloak
in case I may return some day
to settle the score.
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