Grazing the field of the eastern shore I spat
on the misty ground with bloodied lips cut from
twelve rounds with Jesus and the loyal band.
Salt-licked stones arose from their beds and
hovered over the sea to gather in the form
of a blue-wired bridge that reached the west.
I breathed and heaved my feet over the path
and tip-toed barefoot through the belch
of rock and pebble that burped blue bubbles
as I stepped each step towards the barren desert.
Whistling teeth of broken marrow grinning
wide with crimson thoughts of Proverbs nine.
Eating and fearing the blessed feasts of those
forgotten I enter the land of the secret dead.
Greeting me as one of their own, a man who
threw an uppercut on the Lord’s own chin.