the jade burial suit

by Michael Borth

I was never going to be them

I never could be them

Methane propellant

The Deluge Tablet

Janus star and Cloud razor

I studied them through beer

I watched them in the fountain

Morning of southern humidity

Hunting the cup of station coffee

Just hoping it would coalesce

But now a quarter waning moon

Awakened by my clear error

A silent bell in the room splice

The bridge ends in the white fog

I am required to continue its arc

To resurrect into the jade burial suit

In breechclout and worrystone

I become the mudra of Shiva

Or the keeper of the numbers

Written on paper in for-sale cars

They only reside in my thoughts

If all my thoughts were New York City

Can I be saved like him, waiting

For the love I pitched inside her

When she asked me to talk and talk

The wires and the spool of the tape

And the horrible names of the children

Selfsolving labyrinth of the interior

Raw datum of the late miscarriage

In synchronic futility of the verges

Photo of Michael Borth

BIO: Michael Borth is the author of The World Dreamer and As I Roam The Life Cycle. Website here: The Coastlands.