Only blood can produce life.

This mangled carcass still wants more.

In the overlapping skies

of twin planetary landscapes,

in the dying of the clocks

that monitor their own death,

in the gently lapping waves

of molten metal,

in the sanctuary ripped and strafed

I no longer sit to wait for anyone.

The drummers and their puppet prancers

have all moved on to another square.

Lines run outward until they wrap around

the bulb of a cracked dawn.

The roads are freed of meaning

at the sea.  Far off in fog,

under the spell of an uncanny distance,

minerals go to work on human minds

and the suicide of this

counterfeit chronology is decided.

Fountains running for a ghostly inhabitant.

Lunar utensils enmeshed in thinking vertebrae.

Balloon strings letting go of a weightless hand.