an electric tombstone epergne
in a funeral of watts and what ifs,
cask laid bare like a pirate ship
ghosting in the unbreezed milk, without refusal.
And few extol the throbbing thread
of vivid smudge by sprawling palms - tendril tight,
internal to digest the charging tides
that ooze and roll throughout
lives of commutes and numbed prayers,
in conked out breath, condemned and wishful;
lifelines connected in needle eyes,
sowing strips of spent skin and dried digits,
seams in desert camouflage outfits
and noose neckties curdling a dirge pattern.
Another pint of Greek fire concurs,
submerging the candle, nurturing the rage
to spit in saturnine hunger with a stabbing spine
spitefully built against the dexter branch.
Hark! Your fixtures are graves of ice,
your speedways slope into incisive winds
that jag against our fragile flesh,
so boil and distill - and let only such elect few
as pollen drops be spared from consumption,
for flashlights are futile in the conquering dusk,
appropriated house of fog, where hunters stalk and nail
mere exhales of long-gone gods;
in the churchyards and broken plains
of this earth never will you find me.