The Prophecies of Paracelsus

That twig of light, that branch, that
fork, that form.
Beyond that, a city. A horse drowning in
a river, and beyond that, a city. Wildfire, and beyond that,
a city. God, a slippery thing,
an eel, is twined
from our hands. That rainy hum is
the wharf, is the light that etches a bridge
between pronouns, the bottle
of amber formaldehyde, the infant
orangutan, the wing
of a gull stitched to its scapula. Here is a river
drowning in a horse’s dark eye. Devitalized, humming, rainy,
the feather of this gull, this small
spill of light,
the written thing that glues each hill
to the earth, that follows a pull with its wobbly needle. God is
a drowned horse fifty hands at the shoulder. To write what
convinces with
the impossible whisper. After that,
a city. They call this floating thing an angel and hurry you out
of the tent. A bear eating its own paws, and after
this, a city. A window full
of smoke, and after this, a city. A meter to measure
day and time
Adapted for that purpose by the God of our hands.