Faith

Once you've sworn to a dream, you become skeptical of paved roads.  

The moon tries to compose itself while the stars cackle up a frenzy.  
The earth curves at eight inches a mile, so sometimes it's hard to see  
that each of us  
is already standing on the world.  
 
Fluorescents reflect from her eyes of the retired scripture in the sky.  
Toffee powdered pose, crouching in her unsheathed thighs  
and smiling,  
her hair on the fritz,  
and smiling.  
 
Having escaped once a human of the void  
of identity — of that tumbleweed of the earth, that a teller saw  
below reality  
while the dream-catcher played the piccolo.  
 
A selfish beast thrust through the veins.  
The molten chains of her want  
sealed the island of that earth    
from the witchcraft of therapy, already cured in shapely scars of the devoted —    
incarnate in the shore.    
 
And so fell out the voice
by a rip current of loose thread — an image that stung down through gritted teeth.
 
From the distance of the celestial sea, sails whirled in blaze and, slowly sinking  
among philosophical phrases spun to relative ends,  
the electrical channels along the arms' pores  
sputtered above the monsoon soaked in her rib-cage —
 
summoned,  
"Lower the anchor of the North Star!"