not even this poem
can be good enough a sanctuary
for my god

i’m not one of you

my mother is a uvula
in the pharynx of nature;
the turnstile at the entrance
of many comings.

i’m not one of you

my father is the puzzling silence
in the quiescent eyes of sphinx
breathing to being the storied imagination
of gods. gods worn out with the flawed
flesh of forgotten pharaohs

i’m not one of you

i,

the immeasurable depth of circinate rivers.
i, the dazzling spark of verdant flames.
i, the symphonic ode callous gods nod to.

i,

the ineffable metaphor for the pauseless
perpetuity‒traversing thousands of timelines‒
sourced at your strained spine.