THE HOLY MNTN

Locust herd from his mouth. Starlings sally.
And gash. Pour then circle from the bulleted rent
Of his chest. The plague of tourists volley
And rifle against the ochre skein of his horse-drawn
Flesh with the flash and recoil of instagrammed Kodaks.
He bows beneath a bow of oak, over a pall
Of muddled snow. The stilt of his shadow leans down to ask,
Do I know you; have you stalked me to here before?
To watch misery leak and weep from every pore.
Do you know me? as starlings veer and beetle over the open hanger of his mouth, begging for April’s shore.