52

pounds of feathers
and plumes of bricks
establish the scent of your voice.
heard the movements today
of cleaning the rust
a dark high-noon red's rejoice
there's a choral reef somewhere
far below Poseidon's rain
the damned cry out from their rack's
to fall on deaf ears.
'Father Maximilien,
forgive me my ways
brutality the horse you rode in
corrupts thy soul
like my own'
Terror will rain
in blades of silver
the dance of the dead