go legs. mimic a saucy
lass slipping into forest.
let the dead vines cup
all the unheld bodies.
knock back a vial of kyrie.
let the juice of mercy stain
every lip. anything to hush
the red birds of thought.
hello? now that I’m here
can anyone show me
the desire line? the shortest
path away from the forest
floor. where kindling’s piled.
Kyrie shots.