Good God, the devil is up to his old tricks.
His old jealous awe, being where it should not.
He rides aslant blue ether. He brings down that
voice of reed and steel. He whistles like a
comet through a crooked tooth sweat a chain
gang’s moan. The brightest falls when he whistles.
As it falls, brightens the Archer’s black hole.
Stars grow quiet mid-sea. Goddammit, he
skins the brightest he mirrors, cuts clean strings
of wind, the bastard of history repeats
all that iron deposit of bad rain.
He can swell a man’s lunar hours big
with a haunt no root-work spell could undo.
Not a preacher’s lash, not the devil’s tongue.
He is both and none. Waiting at the gate.
