Poem 18: I put the mysterious compass on the table...

I put the mysterous compass on the table 
the needles were spinning rapidly in both 
because the universe is lost, 
the universe hit its head
and falls whistling through
white hot stars, blind
stars, people, and animals,
all bang their heads
statues of saints slip off the back
of flatbed trucks, tumble endlessly
into the void, they fall frozen in
their tears and prayer-clasped hands
flesh too falls from me, i am ashed out
and dissolved with a whirling spoon
into some black vinegar, put into a vial
a man keeps in his coatpocket, he looks down
drunk, desperate, scratches indecepherable
lines on the muck with a stick
and has no idea where to go,
for the vital human compass, the heart,
with its arterial concert, and small
understanding, is pulsing, spinning,
forever lost in its slow self loathing
and well-regulated movement

--David Stokes