Red October

I do not see the clouds on the horizon
in the hour preceding dawn,
only the numinous stars,
and wish for the warmth of a hand.

I looked in the mirror while shaving,
a cut imitation of life,
a dry pharoah, organs somewhere in jars,
I do not shave anymore.

Yea, I have been plagued by thieves,
had human warmth taken from me;
I burn with the heat of the sun
on sand.

The dawn clouds appear
in luminous awe
full shades turn nagual
white, then disappear.

And I look to the sunrise
over a low October fog
to see the splendour of god
in death, and the world
looks like it's on fire
over the burnt October mist.



*revised from a earlier edition