His hands are frozen to the kite,
each moment flashing like a prayer; jointed
metal ribbons keening on a power line;
the arc’s dominion, finding its appointed
path through marrow and the salt of him: frees
the flesh to signal. They anoint him,
as the line descends, bearing odd degrees—
he walks the valleys of the Nephilim,
bends their instruments, sees malfic
visions of an older covenant—his father
rising from the black Pacific
casting hieroglyphs on water,
every lightning bolt a cross;
every hour a soldier lost.