Lizzy Burnam 🐞

Ears up, this is the noble march: a word 
after a word after a word, in the order of suchness, 
the wilting strike of starfire & the emptiness 

in between. (In which you & I were born, unlikely 
out of no/thing & therefore we are 
as we are; army of nobody, true as delusion 

is a salve to the damned & the loathe-to-die.)
True, the noble march : a blueprint 
of haunted hill where the barn once stood, founded

on breadcrumbs tossed by byes before, 
akin sweet tooth fork-tongued kiss — call
and answer Love(song) for Mrs. Death

& her gentle familiarity. Bird(song) of paradise 
broken barely daft by desert long.
A foot after a foot after a foot, lost in your forest 

of poetry / your wreck-house museum 
of philophobia ; listen! vanity of vanities, all is vanity 
& (true) what only love can conquer. 

Sense-making was never the point, though, was it? 
Mrs. Death, mirage, my rage of strandedness, 
bless me with an echo (echo), mercy of your rain.