Parading

We fray into the future, rarely wrought

the oryxes with their black matching horns,

I have made this place around you.

her brain, bone, and the dangerous shreds

This morning’s garden filled with snow

While seraphim burn

a beaked mask, a braided mask, here’s a mask

It mandates while we wake or sleep, and asks

Of some enchanted land we know not where,

the true nature of poetry. The drive