When the old origami
melted,
the crash of pieces
formed us
hymnal-print white
down where the tilted day
first moved in the clefts Â
glistening over scattered moss
and aboriginal hoofs
that had escaped the ghost
but not the blood.
Dividing the fur
like a mountain silhouette
gradually erased by a darkening red atmosphere,
ripe green swords
bore our faces
under the fetal chandelier
of giant stars.
this is pretty damn magnificent.