EXORCISM

yield it, that ceaseless ache.
stars pouring out of your mouth 
like you mean to cultivate
aeons. What begins? A word  

becoming a song. Something 
repeated: a familiar shape 
my mouth holds as I float 
under the incandescent eye  

of a fallen, radioactive god.
Speck of carbon, cluster 
of vibrant particles, my body 
so completely tiny & yet  

so full of longing. Structured
for lack—all that water 
flowing without 
a current, circling  

the drain. Yield it:
void & absence, desire 
& dream. Shape of our lips 
forming words to unmake stars. 

The sun won’t hear us. 
No matter—what 
listens is older. Weaving 
new songs in the gaps 

between each beat, each 
breath, every wave 

exorcising the ache.