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

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.

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

The city arrives peels
of silvered bird laughter
Acrobatic chords frost
death train November in
Girl Pure Sugar and
Day of the Dead lavender

The streets are burning
The names of ghosts curl
on tortured papers

Beyond the slithering ruin of
the skull etched Yucatan
ball court
Your voice burns in my
pulse as I hunt
The jaguar

The sun glides into taverns and
lights the tables where
there is no city or country

Only the walk and talk beside
breaking hours

Moths in steam
Vistas of power plants
you cannot clasp to your heart

The streets and the fields will stretch your hands
You want to taste gently outside the whip of sirens
Like a deer

Who can live in this quiet
as dog's songs splinter
carmine pressure

Equatorial walls
capture half howls
through gristle lenses

One drop of ash
scars the maps
At last her eye

is the string torn
from the hem of the ****