Tuesday, September 29, 2009

last night, someone died in a dream
between two spires, the body
hung detached, tied by sinew
from another philanthropist,
they had lovingly dismembered
what was left of its corpse, torching
the hair and smoking its reek,
wafting that soul in a cloud
of transmission, a lowered
assiduity, dusting the pleaded
folds and sequencing the lights
so as to lead the way home,
a few followed, but they
were shot from overhead, then
devoured by a liquid cicero, pouring
luster round the piles and piles
of harvested organs, deliberately
horse-shoeing the credence of
recollection from one to fall
attached, sagging atop
an ivory tusk, but there
were two, yet they were gone.