Also from March sometime…
Ghosts in the sun, reinhabiting the bodies of cast-off crushed little toys,
they’re lashed together with wire and twine;
Give us a sign, I hear a distant whine, a distant howl,
jackal gods, a chorus of beasts from the wilderness,
they were happy once
before King Death sat down on his mountaintop
His yellow hands, His squinty eyes,
His mind on his butchery.
Vultures in the vault of heaven,
you can read them off like letters written cross the sky,
its a song we’ve heard before,
the blood hums in your ears as you regard the dusty world.
You took my hand and lead me to this place, the stone faces staring.
Forever isn’t anything to even begin to think about,
how about right now, the point and the blade,
a whisper of feathers slicing the desert air.