It

It is my great Tap Root,
This place I am trying to get to.
Strung up way above
Love,
And clenched into itself like
A muscle.

It is only the Hand because I
Am the Clock, biting time into
Ticks with my great static sword.
It is a Holocaust, this garden
To whom I am Lioness.

I stand still; and it crucifies, crucifies.

And it is I
Who must pass and repass It
Parasitic, mercenary liquid,
Solidity only to spaces.