Stalker

Say, “I’m holding you in the light.”

Hold my head under a river’s

brackishness so I might speak my sins.

Bury me at a crossroads.

Give me convenience or give me

God. I wake up outside

a church some mornings, but

No One’s there with a handful

of sewing needles and a jar

of sea monkeys. Just panopticonic

menace. Wetwork to be done.

My DNA in 29 states

and one foreign country.

Flowers trysting like mad

as the ant I’ve just crippled

drags its skewed thorax around.

The air infested with static,

white noise a brilliant threnody

that spirals and spirals the ribcage.

All the best buildings are churches.