DEBAUCH 7

Imbibing the black wine to purge
the taste of the rubies from my mouth,
the ground lit by tender shoots
& limbs budding in fever, the shadows
grow graver & I split

like a fruit along the groaning fissue, fusion
or fuschia snowflakes driving the engine
of this rut into antiquity: that's it,
a baseless absolution & levitation, the
blue veins climb the worried spire, a weird
blossom unfurls its solar panel petals into
this the only day that's ever been, the binary
language of reservation, reservation's axis
that tilts toward the felled clementines
& the pregnant loam where worms go,
where white stalks reach for the air
as bloodless fingers: Indian Pipe, Skunk
Cabbage, every green thing that smells
like hell. A tongue collects flies, digits try
the heavy atmosphere, touch nothing,
go on growing.