Whom have I slathered
with my living blood
cast aside from me?

Such long bridges leading back
to the mud's lightning flag
the yawned open aisles of waiting
with celebrant or reclining arms

the sliding plateaus
bowled-out taverns of nowhere

acres of fur torn hearts
mysterious deaths and dyings
that are never over

all my habitats gleaming
from an ice shod in clay
and a grim bud's tower

fortresses in lamented decline
vines reaching trails
of well fertilized terror

the table's eye and dining room
sunlit bare.