If you keep punching at a man’s head

it will mix his mind. So fast.
 
So pretty.
 
I want my brain to be the jangled thud
 
my body makes when it bangs against the ground.
 
I want you to say my name,
 
knock a broken branch against its tree
 
and that song will be a page
 
in a book you love to hold in your hand
 
because it is a birdcall that proves
 
you are privy to a superhuman scale.
 
I believe God is healing my soul right now
 
by killing my body. Slowly.
 
The opposite is true for your body, illuminated
 
by a light fired from another world,
 
seeing what other men have only thought.
 
Infinite are the fast mercies,
 
infinite the pretty occlusions.