it is, always and forever, the season of death.
summer, again
on his white horse
blinding
the black snake of the road writhing
asphalt-dark beneath the burning of his hooves.
he comes-
in fire and in flood,
acrid smoke and the storm-sound of helicopter overhead,
you carry the magnolia inside you now
and it blooms under your skin-
[a tooth at the back of your mouth
erupts at an angle,
a radiant pain you are afraid to have
torn from the citadel of your skull.]
he comes in ripples and daisy-chains.
you sleep fitfully,
and dream of-