Your children twist
their legs in the fields
during
the play murdering
gather their
arms to decide
how to assemble
your hips
when onlookers
burned into paved
staircases
dream of how
tumbling phantoms
destroy countrysides
and what wreck
is the womb

On the towers watch
The thrashing trees
The ice clad rocks

I wait to burn in a ceremony
Where they cannot make fire
And deer run wild through the camp

I am merely sleeping
Wishing to scratch my name
Into Elysium.

I form and practice
the smallest hidden
dramatic gestures
from within the simple
mouths of spiders
There
the secrets are in
quiet handprints
Fortunes are passed
from the ceilings
The lights are
wise and silent as
the gaze of
Chinese tortoise

Her voice is the burning of autumn
curling out of terra cotta chimneys
making you strong in the cold
knowing that your time is
the lost time and our
days are the last days
You run on bridges over rivers
growing colder as
the dream of being human
on earth becomes startling

In the wild
You are left to consider graffiti disasters
hatched from gypsy palates
Vanished in music through spiders

In a wilderness of orange viral light
Moths push from the lips of willow switch
Geishas who stargaze on
Matrimonial black powder

In our wilderness of birth the
Name of Fire is swallowed by moths
We are reborn in Geisha operas
Over the embers of burned invention

You sign the word for sand
In a lamplight hem
A voice skating chalk
Points over pearl

Its pitch wound in a white
Arched wax arm
Ticking the membrane
In her submerged bell

When the flavor of the West has really touched you
you'll walk for the animals
The hotels will boil

the idea of your ear as a welcoming door
We pull your pacific heart into plush pine
quilted music and quiet knives

The execution songs are soft
blackouts of deer
The songs that pour from the mourning procession are

clever legal tactics
**** anthems and verbal
Castrations

Brings her orchestra
fixed to pitched agate
Her unwinding demolition
is in the saying

Her hunting grounds
break over seance bells
On oak and violin
floods

The unanswered
arrows
The advent
Her scherzo opens

Wolves balance
in the driving

The King of Chalk dropped
His speech in a trail of ants
outside Juarez

This is the day to chase the kite
that smashed into a junkyard and got shot
knocked up and burned in her bed

I chased that red vulture onto hunting grounds
Crossed by jazz wires where oil soaked colossi
stood on each side of the dripping black strip

The thousandth
****** beneath
Lake Baikal of
The Trident
The gods' mouthful
bristling iron
is spat ashore
Leviathan's bones
glint and crackle
Man is one celled
Apocalypse
yet to divide
His name in Manganese
splinters under the paths
of the mastodon

Staring with the spider
into semantic oubliettes
The cats have all gone mad
The hounds growl at shadows
The guards in the tower
hone their bayonets
The night is red
The shroud of crow
follow my car
past sleeping windows
then lift like one
legendary rook
The snow falls in my headlamps
and my mind is a cemetery

Your patience is her picture
It is one last rose buried in her voice
Your careful dalliance becomes her wine
Her children wait at the port
It is vengeance
A stone animal turned in the earth
A white hourglass
She is the early thought
Your fingers perish on
the paper edifice of her temple

Passage of day over the title on
a brittle page
Someone tore up a
greatest hits of Zen earlier
that year

Your spine bolts after
a windborne ticket
Where else could you be
Not the desert of whisky but of
whisky's prehistory

Distilling the *** act from a codex
Amnesia pressed  like  specimen
between yourself and your killers
glance over a name in stone
The page a sheet of light

A mad stone mask waits
in memorized frost on the
blood heavy curtains of ****

Backstage are the petrified
coronas of silver babies whose
ghostpaper hands whisper
wreaths of slavery