I’m not ready to go on,
the room this song fills silence drawn over a cage
to approximate


blackarmor


I’m blackarmor bobbing in 
the breathing lake
give my name to the ensoulment 


whose war it’s been
to wrestle
free from this old


knocked-spasmodic satellite
who wades ashore to work 
like a square


the slow fade
in Abyssinia
I know


the paywalled episodes of youth as if in stone cold recovery
I tried
to strike poor fauna


from what poems
I admit to 


youngblood,


step on your
colonial geometry like carpet to be laboratory tested
if you let me give these heathen holidays their confirmation names:


arbitrage of
healing;


lightpath regulated by the bears again