Now it's done; the direction
of a body shoved through time.
Gravity, the stress of beauty,
feet walking barefoot on a bed
of thorns, muscles of a mouth
tense as rope, the optic nerve
gulping light, beads of light
running down its fleshy throat.
Look back. Pull the reins.
The clock is running fast,
very fast. See time run. See
it burn. Here is the shadow
where we were born. Here, tails
of light curving through the sky.
There, at the end, the teeth
of total darkness tears apart
its offspring.
