When I am in the wrong and all is not
Well in matters heart and soul and flesh,
When wet is dry and course, and ice is hot
And pieces shatter sharply and vanish,
When falling hair does flow away from scalp
And lashes eye bat from the crescent lids
When ribs and bones under pressure do snap
And pure and clear revealing mirrors are hid,
When rooms are circular and all a maze
And hands from basements reach out from the dark
To snatch the throats in ignorance of their haze
And delicately squeeze each dying spark,

        Then with the nails, the lamb of God, behold!,
        Who takes away the sins of every world.

Fragile Bodies and Flesh

Like a pile of dust
meticulously collected
with the broom.

All the fine elements swept to meet each other starting at one end of the room, of the cold, cement floor, and
sweeping
sweeping
brushing to the other.

Painting clean each square foot
from each miniscule particle
that lies waiting to be a sneeze
to some lost one happenchance to pass.

Basting that slate clean-
clean clean, a pile of dust...

...a rib, a pile of dust...

sweeping
sweeping, nearing the end of all sweeps, the cracks
and corners at the far far end, gently
folding each sweep into the dust pile...

And brushing all piles together
as one, as one, all dust
to be swept

into that sweeping pan, dust dust
sweeping,
brushing, turning round to the pile....


                                                   ....a boot

print remains, small particles floating in the rays of windowsun.

Now only the remains of a pile, dust dust
scattered.

                                                     A boot, a boot
a stomping meandering boot

print is all that remains.

A ghost, a spirit, of the dust that we are.