on the edge of town

for all the boredom; a stiff drink in hell
you’d rather be cast out
like Jack
with his head made
a hollow pumpkin glow

than the unstoppable march of
heaven’s glaciers
              carving my name
                               six letters
              on the bottom of your foot

the trend line
a brand
untraceable; without the needle
to sew these sounds
into the folds of your skirt

precipitation: you make it rain
by kneading belief
into your unborn child

the same as; several centuries ago
windmills burnt
on the edge of town

a canopy of solemn giants
at the apothecary’s hut

for all the boredom in this place
              it is an oasis; to which I was guided
by the ruins on your thighs
                             let me drink
                             to dispel
the psalms from the lies