I push my bike off into the little street
and glide through a perfect dusk:
The sun holding its breath for me
behind house-shaped voids
that suck at my glistening ghost
with their guilt-puckered lips.
Around my neck are wrapped
the fears of the good folk of this great nation.
Worms: clinging milky white threads
on screens and in dreams,
nocturnal emissions from their shining skulls
as they’re chased by a perverted militia.
I have worms of my own,
Osiris, the god of my childhood,
voice roughened by years of smoking despair
but still lit with rage and fear
begging me to beg
our father who art in heaven
to twist me back into a regular shape.