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Hierarchy of doves, lofting
the faintest the highest
the one touching the world least
the one whose being fits
most neatly into the breeze

the print of DNA creation
on a planetarium's ceiling
to be shattered against the sky
an egg in a net, a basement auditorium
strewn with pealing pianos
one hundred thousand tape cassettes running
the clickless push of fleshy buttons
a hot-tub hidden in the orchestra

bass thrumming in a wooden crate
the heart of a mummy alive with worm sex
the election of elders who babble toward infancy
pates gleaming in the torch of mosquito violins
burning imprints through cello bodies
cubbyholes of sad and shrunk computer light
music stands in plethora, feet glued
diagonally aimed, on a plateau
the theater screen like a bedsheet that we fall through
while chandeliers on pulleyed rope
descend with burning nightgowns
on their candled skeletons

the doves imprint the ceiling
from both sides, collapse
the diapered cherubs
like soaps on a hot hearth
flutter through the aging breach
where a city is an axe-cleft
gods departed to a park
to sleep under moss, we see through
the hidden radiance of aging shit

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