Mystical moist night air
points me to the cavern
on the green hill
under the shadow of the birch tree.
Hearing myself speak,
I turn to wrestle the Jabbok
on a river of self penance and blame.
You touch my hip and I quake.
You spit in my eye and I see
You burn my lips with coal and I taste.
You clasp my head and I hear.
Just then when the earth spun, you left me here –
on this dewy wet street sweet spot grass
and I cry at having been maimed by my identity.