Mike Bagwell

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From The Skypenis Sagas

In a past life, Skypenis and Kolaptō
arrive at the dinner party, accidentally wearing
the same clothes, same skeleton, same sexes.
At the bonfire, they burn only the good news.
At the hedge maze, every path is from the graph
of desire and although the other guests
wander for hours, these two walk
through walls.

Now here’s Skypenis hiding in the cut graphs
stirring up ashes into reverse smoke.
They have him down for arson
of his fate, life, if he wasn't dead already,
the sentencing set down in acorns and pomegranates.

Too bad he's busy holding the firmament close,
too bad he drowned lifetimes ago
in the smallest of fires.

He's in a mood, stamping his boots like a racehorse,
the spitting image of spitting images in the abstract.
Hell, he's growing spherical as spit too,
thoughts blacker than horizons
and they last.

Parole coming up the river
in the language of the elders,
says seven words,
obeys.