So strange, the laying on

of hands, the pen pressing

color into white paper.

He wears gloves with fingers

cut out.  Cold is like caffeine.

Fatigue knocks but does not

enter.  Names come to him.

They glitter like stars.

The old writers appear.

Gods live in the spaces

between words.  Peel back

the skin.  Talk to the inside

of the cells.  It is the voice

that explodes, again and again.