feet fade into feathers
streets are named after leather
longing for loops of string
ringtones that dream in desert timing
first rhymes then rhythms
decency gone blind
so we must find our light inside
held in bed against our will
vintage bells dressed in music
goose feathers used for pillows
the west-winds find his lips
respect turns to trust
and kisses your bones
in bird language i speak
tones of glowing stones
roses freeze the afterglow of darkness
dressed in moans and loaning
their hands to anyone that passes

432

Do People moulder equally,
They bury, in the Grave?
I do believe a Species
As positively live

As I, who testify it
Deny that I—am dead—
And fill my Lungs, for Witness—
From Tanks—above my Head—

I say to you, said Jesus—
That there be standing here—
A Sort, that shall not taste of Death—
If Jesus was sincere—

I need no further Argue—
That statement of the Lord
Is not a controvertible—
He told me, Death was dead—