self-portrait

I am but a spectre

of american capitalism.

I am the site of a proxy war,

a host to holy wars:

this body is a temple.

These bones are saturated 

with alcohol and brackish backwind,

wrapped in skin and

sometimes soaked in starlight.

Eyes are colliding galaxies when disengaged,

swimming freely in their sockets,

loosened by wonder, or

love, or

loss, or

lingering

as do all living things

stuck in the sacred

solar sanctuary of broken spectre.