Sundays
yawn slack-jawed
like
cattle skulls on garbage heaps.
What
illusion is this of being wounded
to
the last of my fogbound species?
(A
puddle surrounds the bloody corpse,
bark
scored with a runnel of ascending ants.)
Hang
the empty flesh in plasters of anguish,
mooing
like me before the desert void,
barely
iridescent with witless death.
And
where is the oracle cast,
the
divine water of a god
clamoring
for his gangrenous dream!
The
wax melts between your teeth.
Astarte,
my child What monster have you whelped?
A
garland dangles from its beak.
Its
wax is murky, denuded, veined with arteries.
Endless
Sundays in a toad’s snout
overflow
like coffins for moonless matrons.
Wherever
can you evade your disguise,
your
carriage boozing along
a
throng of worms for your thighs?
He
begged your spittle, meteor storms, flint stones.
On
what bitter snack were your profiles engraved,
even
as you ripped the splinters from your belly?
I
have come to warn them.
For
you have returned with your tinted mouth.
All
Sundays have dazzling hooves,
leftover
casseroles, asbestos forks,
saffron
spoons/founts of wisdom,
crosses
of straightened mirrors
above
a recumbent child.
This
voice burns from below.
As
all the fairgoers know.
