Dylan Furcall

I submit myself to something calmer
and less intelligent than myself,
a lacquer-crested wave cutting salt
through lucid underbrush. I want to

shroud you in milk robes readily as body
of the mountain, bull horns having
sprouted architecture, miniature histories
of the gut factory. Who’s to say 

I’m a part of this if ultimately I show 
clemency, punish those desiring punishment.
Red jam bespatters your raiment most
languidly of two star vaults. I gave you this

flower that was always a mask.
Hurry me into the spruce grove.