I dream enraged light in the eyes of cathedrals.
Objects like flesh infecting our mouths,
the curriculum of salt my body is,
toxic as the daughterless hills.
The corrugated waking found lately
in my voice is the one sob the dove made
that became the moon.
I dream what God calls the elements. Adrift,
with oars lowered to the task—the object of me
flown from the roost.
A hungry downriver in my voice.
Sleep has gray and vocal ruins.
I have a little god in me
and she doesn’t cry at last.