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Move stones from the altar

I was born of folklore

gestation

within the combustion of stardust

in John the Baptist’s dreams.

Courted by whispering darkness

as a stumbling fawn.

Snatch the cricket from the

palm of the drywall

Vestigial, stigmatic limbs

Sworn to you, I carry out your will

A mole enslaved

in a kingdom of dirt

and worm gods

The sky hisses

in retaliation

as Pangea-teeth

molds the void

launch into the raindance

silos give forth

their bastard litter

When destiny comes to fetch me,

I’ll be waiting,

with the head of my father in hand.