Intrusive Thought As Horse With Dead Rider
The preordained trajectory of an
arrow arcing midair and careening
towards a skull. Animal logic expressed
by temperature and twitching haunch.
Knocked loose, a grey stone tumbles down
the sloped cathedral wall. Arriving
unannounced at the village gates,
the unassuming feast, the very back
of the eye. Indeed there is a purple storm
making ragged cloth from the sky and
cracking at the teeth of the mountain.
An ancient fold of the mind pulses.
Hooves avalanching across the altar cloth.
This will taint the celebrations, make us
hungry for every nail in the floor,
will chew our sanctuary down to
the quivering stone we have so carefully
placed in the earth. Each crashing step
twists a cursive of sparks from
the ground, dissolving barriers
between light and violence. Watch,
the impulse rears back as if startled
by its own image. Stumbling past
quiet eyes. Foaming at the mouth.
Finally speaking a chemical apocalypse.
Every fear confirmed with such conviction
the storm is mistaken for scripture.