It’s dark and after you disappear I climb down to the temple.
The icon is a wooden bird, five pieces, wired with copper.
The helicopters appear these days hours before the people
begin to assemble.
One of our tactics is to turn and face the masks.
Difficult, to believe these days that souls can leave their bodies
back there in the stoptime after pain. Lucky: not the soul’s work to believe.
In the breathspace where your body was, resistance
— little world beneath the subfloor of a van.
Anguish attaches; here, in little temple where —
We never were compliant and we are not going back
to our bodies, I am singing, to myself.