The burial

the kitchen light: dim

night: knife quiet, cereal

all-bleary, milk and cheese

snooze in the refrigerator

pet in basket respires

plant in plant pot respires

just as effortless.

but all my blankets comfortless,

and every open book a drain

 

to the pastlands:

all the metal gone

seas boiled over

dogs rant mad

undomesticates

wine gone running sour

back to the grape

back to the old days

continents submerged

old mud on the cuffs

of your trousers; knees torn

out in the dust

and digging away the mountains.

sweet india, indian, indiana.

 

drums are the weapons of royalty

and free speech is a peach – let’s eat!

and the juice will flow through the internet

and out, somewhere in china or north korea

they curled the limbs in a grave circle

laid the jade like good green apples

parted with their best weapons

for a leather-faced man.

all in one! all one!

godlike or godly, a leader of men!

 

louder! in your body! louder! in your body!

so they raised ramparts,

traded cowries into the harmattan,

to be lost under the bloody desert,

forever and bone dry.

they brought back a tall yellow horse

to the emperor – a horse that ate the tops

of the trees, with a long blue tongue,

a horse that swayed like a heat haze.

distances like a pearl of water

on the palm’s ephemeral geography

rose evanescent

to the sun’s arms

and the currents and winds

smiled on the ships and the sailors.

 

camels and dogs run together in severity

each angel or devil knowing its fellow

a certain degree like a thing astronomical.

 

my fire and ice is lonely. i flow a liquid mineral

a cloud of sharp sand, my conscience

runs swinging and kicking over little rocks

and my sadness unguent from me,

a low molten rock river singing death to the plains,

midas-fingering in the vanguard of ashes.

 

In their warm bodies, mammals mete their hierarchies

their heartbeats pulses regulate.

So the brightest stars push on ahead

And are the first to vanish, back to the old days

over shifting ice and sand.

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