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Unpublished stories, unspoken texts.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.