I’ve been his messenger for some time now.

And brown letter in my hand, walking across the wet morning field,

I feel like I’m hanging from a golden chain.

Of course I read them,

just like I steal a moment to spread my body across the exotic carpet,

like I hide fruit under my clothes.

Someone told me to tell him, if every bone in his body is split in two

and tears well in both his eyes,

I wouldn’t even know to deliver letters to a damp and quivering slope that was once a man.

Of course I read them, just like when I am almost alone at night,

I stare into the fire and cry tears of gold.

Someone told me to tell him that he alone split the cosmos down the middle

and caused a deadly rain of stars

and does he even know? And does he feel sorry?

Can you chase smoke away? Have you ever tried?

Someone told me to tell him that he’s a mold-covered boulder

that should be hewed again and again and again,

that there’s a nation of men ready to kill him one hundred thousand times over.

I return at night. The moon hangs from a starry chain.

I feel like I’m a prairie fire

the moment before it explodes in a flood of light.