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it is such a hallowed place
where my hunger is all the time
mixed-up in spirits
& soil

from which grass comes
so grand & green
to rise around
this rotting oak temple

Jerusalem beetles
will do everything
they ever do
inside of it

& on top of it
i will say a prayer
each time my arm comes down

may the universe take you home

it is the merging of iron and oxygen
which gives the weapon its age
&
which spatters my brow

dear bird

the hatchet remains
slightly sunken
in the temple roof
& stands there

all strange memories
& soft flesh
as the talon of an owl

yet it is my talon, see

& it is my hunger
which calls me to be
in service to the wild:

i too am dying here
scattering myself about
in this revered landscape

so we are the same, forever

calling every temple-spirit home
and molding meat into brilliance