the red light on sheemore

 
the red light like a city bar’s open sign steady glowing through evening mist
sheemore sheemore she’s wanting more
more stones for her cairn
the red lighted cross, red for the blood
like a cinematic choice amongst untold horror
b-roll of red mist folding down the hill
power surges up to the hilltop
power lines to the cross; our lord jesus he needs more juice
sheemore she needs more blood more sweat
more salt more sorry sods to grow her moss
in the early morning the red filament bulb
long-standing atop the fairy hill
like a surgical cut in the fabric of the sky through which hell’s light beckons
be not afraid of her be not trembling under the hill
or above the hill sheemore
her red light is on at the rest stop
and we passing through like apparitions in our lifetime
that red light kept burning by curious catholic magic
the red lighted cross like an alien waypoint
brought from a faraway nebula to mark the spot
sheemore sheemore sure they must have not stayed long or returned at all
or are they here still, under and more above
sheemore the hill sheemore
the cross; invasion sublimated into myth
still you cannot stake a hill like sheemore