The sobriquet of animal nature
came storming down to awaken me
on a cold evening in December.
The Virgin Mary was born and
the olympic runners carried her flames
without their bodies to a new pavilion.
It felt like the sojourn was not at an end
when too many voices from Barton Fink
were marauding me with arrows.
Black diamond stairs sucked me into a fan cooled cave
and I could not be there and walked out for a tattoo.