If it is,
condors in the night sky
a gilded wooing eruption
in the empress way of stars,
I hear each bar of the xylophone
beaten by their wings
battling the atmosphere.

A wish to pass
behind the firewall, you.

If it is,
fire-starters in the dim
in the cavernous, in the ruins of the day
a pacing, piercing undulation
rippling under the skin,
I feel each dig of the claws
of the panther puncturing my lungs
to a paler, slivered shadow of breath.

Your smile glowing
in the tint of a nuclear sun; the dream of red letters
every night, new.
If it is,
angels of mercy
unfurling ragged wings on runny skies
I see Sophia’s paintings dripping
on my head, & each prayer wheel
spins in the temples of Kathmandu
furiously, yellow-bellied pigeons
fall over from lack of oxygen,
eggs are fried on the bonnets of cars
& I hear the Noctiluca
roaring of its hunger.

If it is,
I draw the line.
I choke the hold on time
& supply runs short.

Shoals of unborns playing tantras with wooden legs
on tankers carrying oil explode
& melt the very tarsoul of the road, & you
you must run for your very, very life.