The Shadow of Baphomet

The man who speaks of Satan
becomes Satan, in his speaking,
as I become him speaking, with my ear.

You'd think there would be nothing
to this conjuring, except some feeling
and some words, for something missing,
some absence in our wounds

—but real smoke comes from clanging pipes,
the dark spots merge to one, the pistons
on the ever-churning machine can be seen
ripping some psyche, some flesh, to shreds.

The window shutter flaps—
the demons and the law
hold the room in stillness,
but the hinge can always be elbowed free
to blue light and the golden trees.