Friday, March 26, 2010

After Xestobium rufovillosum



After Xestobium rufovillosum

Death, at best, rest. Hunters drawing
The nail. Pride of the morning,
Each night’s death’s watch
Tapping, walled. Wounds. Relics.
The nail beastly drunk,
Mangy dogs crouch while bells peel.

Hunch back lanes blackened, rabid. Peel
Bells dawning flitted away drawing
With sleight of hand the morning,
Metal struck dumb. We watch
Love like archers blind, relics
Without rhyme, drunk

Less glazed. Exquisite wine drunk
From lead crystal refracting peels
Unrecognized. Shadows drawing
Grave faced people on anxious moorings:
Forfeiting seconds of dying to spy
A distant, lying history of relics:

Unpublished stories, unspoken texts. Relics
Along brackish standing water. Drunk
By mouthfuls, stolen as laughter peels
Riotous, gathering violence, drawing
Breathe as peonies bloom, mourning
As fragile as we watch

Extravagant young corpses. We watch
Atop large howling stones, relics
Of passing interest, drunk
Where madness as an inner peace peels.
Dawn’s creation hunkered down drawing
Infectious wounds. Morning

Rising from fire born mourning
A clashing of swords. We watch
Wind ground mountains become relic
Where no coherent thought drunk
Leads incoherently to others peeling
Away skin. Drawing

The nail. Drawing a poison drunk
While on watch, while bells peel
Morning once relic and at rest.