Procession

I shall have to settle for being annhilated and ancient. You impress me with your thumb, or face, poked and poketed with rough old runes. Our preparations are being secured. You ask me and I say, forget the laurels and go with the clover, or the city lights and gothic shapes, or the spirals and burning towers. Forget the spheres, forget the lit eyes, the digits or the wrist. There is just nowhere to get to from here. Somehow I do not trust this undertaker. Quite likely he's got no mother or knuckled ego, making the noise of miners in their company and sleep of the dead. A bowl sits upon a pedestal. Grainy and undereaten. How strange it is to occupy no space. How strange it is to murmur with No emotion. She's presenting her body like an old sheet, Exhausted, two chalises, one adorned, a strange, plain box with no name upon the lid. She gets a platform underneath to support the air intake or something of discharge. We've all exhausted our wrists and our sharp islets. A strange drink we have all swallowed. We settle like marshes in flame and air and foam, eyes ornamented, tongues silent but clucking while the lines and the black robes roll like engines. And we ask nothing of life.