I of III

being knee-deep in muck
transfixed on the starlight
shine in another’s eyes

Nothing sets in until you see that path on their body. The meek journey-of-hands traveled by so many before. A simple route across the chest, crossing on the sternum, up to the shoulders. Unity to the Catholics, revered as being in need of precise blessings.

Oh, hospital shine — fluorescence off surgical steel, beaming straight to the brain stem—a sterile, disorienting flash that bangs on the negatives of your memories with sledgehammer-full force.

They meet you
they twiddle their trinkets
they hand you the frigid shells
of blanks—
and disappear
For the live ammo 
were, is busy abroad 
spitting tidal waves of steel
covered in full metal jackets 
oceans from our theatres and stages

Iron fist
or helping
hand, reaching outward
through mist

Betting breaths on
compulsive circuitries of another

Better pray the parachute works
—A.D.

Feat. Crown Jewel (photo by the author, July 2020)