near the dry barrel I laid my arms, my legs
my eyes are tied with photons, cones, and rods
on the top of the sky

from above it’s raining with dust and fishes
the rain’s colour is grey – like the young crow
that sits on my nose

it stares at me and sees a black raven,
then nips my right eye with the sharp beak
like a surgical needle

***

I now see the world in three ways –
the clouds are red, the sky is blue
the mean bird is purple

the cruel wind tasting my skin,
brings out the veins gathered like branches
filled with poisoned apples

some snapshots nearby – with saints,
angels squinting their eyes and laughing at me,
family, friends - all in a twister

***

I watch, in the mirror below, albums from a journey