There Is No Land

 
at the very end of
there is no land,
no point
of departure into
the very end of
that clothing mental people
wear drowning
during the exact worst of journeys
precisely navigated
grief multiplied by the onset
of the very end of
piercing searing sound
all up and down the halls
first mates and crew
extreme revelations
infinity off the table now
where delicate imaginary flowers mix
worshiped with high sing-song
voices among a marble floor of amputations
glee
the gluttons’ smoking blood
Tiresias now bolder
fathered once again, then fearless
no sanctified point
of departure
no

Spread Across the Walls

legacies are one thing
spread across the walls
of caves
on boxcars
preserved, revered
traveling day and night
but words
those most elevated
that is, always
subject to interpretation
wandering, one press to another
black ink spread across white paper
yet fungible, translated
like germs blown across
continents and oceans
libraries, classrooms
penetrating, infecting
human brains
exactly like
invading hosts that walk
the earth until they don’t