The Baying Heart

At night standing at his garden door, he sips moonlight. he can smell the closed blooms He is amber in a wine vat, a coagulant of red shadows. The darkness supports his bones, it plucks at the stray threads of stale years. What is this shine behind his eyes, this starry vortex beneath his shoulder blades? Strange angels have entered through his unleashed being and they are feasting as they partake of his flesh dressing and undressing themselves with his raw and wordless prayers.