The Third Of Its Pertinence Poem by Cheryl Renaud

Even as pure angels
fall from the apple tree
and never fly back

I am contained
as the choreographed
words in my native ocarina

My head is still warm-wet
from the sea of smoke last night

I know there were realities
split by phantoms that, for so long,
eluded shodaows,

that I launched with mortar
prayers

headlights pushing
my eyelids

Even if remembering is
forgetting,
I know that
I'm in world dreaming
with a foot in another
creating my God to
bite into aisles of flesh.