Can’t you hear
their footfalls following
behind me? Archaic
justice hinges
on hammers and hews—
Maul my freedom:
forge order.

Black shadows in moon.
I lope like light
down the Avenue.
Its skeletal scars
fade faster than facades
of (burial) burrows. I can’t
linger:

I stub
my toe on a protrusion—
harder than air—
I fall under the ring-
boulders to collapse
on dewy grass—
what erections?

Grass whistles like glass
scraped on bronze.
Wind growls. I want light, just
so intangible I only feel
it on my skin.

All doors and pillars

I reach, but stone blocks me

sarsen hangs like a screech
owl off
lintel joint:

jump

into a roofless
sky. The constellations revolve
around the stone-clock. I’m bound
to its hands. My fingers still,
petrified like the giant
sarsens who used to dance,
until the light encircles

their waists like manacles.

My flesh peels,
steels into stone.
Wrinkles align in cracks—
moles sketch pictographs
of axes and mammoths.

I’m a giant
detained in light,
waiting for the first
ray to sear my skin
red like a scar
or a ring in a tree
trunk.

Light ticks into
the furrow between
my breasts,
as the lintel cracks
and falls away.
Who knew a phallus
fell off, if
enough time passed ?

I lie on the altar
stone, skull
without body,
flesh hangs off lintel
of my neck. Light streaks
between pillars, monoliths
twinning into triathlons—

burns towards flame-shaped sunstone:

pausing before the rape.

Am I the victim or victimizer?
My flesh-stone has scars
like flames—I scream
when I make others scream—
their entrails scrape the alter-stone:

My skull is cracked
an axe grinded
its mortar into alter stone
and the flat block rusted red.

The light still shines on the avenue—
a thistle snags me:
does the Triathlon bleed red?

I scream with stone-cold eyes:

devils fly and
drop stones in horseshoes.
I crack bluestones like eggs
into
yolks of blue and silver flakes.

I blink.
faces form
from the flakes of rock.

Heelstone
lunges up and out
like my bearskin-capped soldier:
He drives me onto his knife-point:

a grave based on ground
an explosion
of light and lines
aligned
in hanging stone.

There’s my hangman.

A giant kneels,
as he lowers earth
from his shoulders:

I supplicate him,
as my torso declines
into tufts, weeds, heath.

I can’t shoot down the winter dawn.
Am I just
a white stem broken
off flesh or stone?