when i wrote a(nother) poem

"there are more strangers here"

sweating like chaos,
i go running over the hills
fleeing all that has
chased me,
intangibly
and changed me
retroactively
into this heathen-type;
half horse, half wolf,
whole man.

there are more strangers here
than in the
underworld -
the other side of
mossy knolls -

here, my platonic line pushing
dear -
grasses are greener
than all rosemary,
roses red like bleeding
soldiers,

and every sun
brighter than night
is black

and flammable to your soul.