Song of the Devoured

Death over crow
circles silently eyeing
the last ditch effort
to shed skin
to be born again.

My snakes alike
I am flung far below
legs for broken wings
of feather, of bone
of leather, of stone

Can I drink with recall?
Can I drink clean mirrors?
Can I drink the dew of your grasses?

Weeks wasted, words wasted
these dismal rituals
these damned dances of the dead
in the ink of night
i plot my path
with false astrologies
strewn across the sky
and the songbirds sing
songs of the devoured

my body nests in tailored hands
to sew string across stitch
to dig spades into the dirt
greens doubtful these among dreaming
spade from flesh
the pores, the paranoia
the treading, the fatigue
songbirds sing

ivory and lament
grain of ink the night vocal
the restlessnes, the urge,
the sound the wood the scrape
its movement circles me
one dream brings the salt the sea
the water the age the scent of thee
delicate its in stones
the time the touch the notes
redundant: its number its repeat
being of ground
my inhabitants invariable
an angel a head
a bird, an oil
an element steady
fixated resonant

by bones i grow, by waters i rinse
a tendency I have
kept aside, kept alive