Your father, dark: Carpathian or Sioux.
But in this mirror, slash of shadows, you
look more like Beowulf or Hamlet: blue-
spruce eyes, with skin a northern glacial hue.
Slurred ghost. Hurt hunter born to die. Or dread
prince sacrificed, come back to life. You’re pitched
too high for the quotidian, you’ve ditched
the baggage of the dollar, drunk and fed
on honey-dew, on milk of paradise.
Existence in your world cannot sustain
itself except in flux: clouds torn, black ice
quicksilvered by the sun, red lava plain,
a dark core throbbing rays of light that slice
old wounds like moons, bleed tides of bliss and pain.