Your beauty is gone

from these biblical bullshit aisles

gone from the icicles

that hang from nowhere

and the sweat of the dead

hangers dangling with ghostly clothes

the poles of old structures

glistening in rain bombs

while the windows tilt like aching wings

to throw off lightning sap

here is a bowl of burnished whale bone

here are the shadows painted

on the artificial light

here is a handle of mysterious silver

connected to nothing and

handed off to nobody at all

here is the knife it once had

playing the rib of my ribs

like an electronic drum set

I'm unalive as liquid granite

walking iron torn tar

swollen for your flashing curves

in playful transit

dancing in a cube of glass

through vacuumed layers of the time trap

sweet pollen past the dumpsters

that know my name.