take the bones
they’re built around
and pull them down.
the flesh drips off them
like wax while their bodies rise.
their mouths are red
in the half-light and silent.
this place itself is whispering,
it is hungry,
it feeds on feeding
and longs for longing.
its spaces are not vaulted,
but arched – you are certain
this is not a holy place.
but still you have come to watch
the poems as they fall
and pool under their skin,
the poems that are whispered
in bright colored voices
while the lights dim.
this is not what god intended
for the world, but still you have come
to watch and whisper while the poison
of pure longing falls from your body,
less an ecstasy than an obligation of these flickering nights
and the specters floating between them
obscuring the miracle of daybreak.