*~*~*~*~*

a lattice shell around the open mouth
and the four other feminine ways
there are, to call me home
wires around the soul bunching

there is a bulwark of stone serenades
in the center of a cemetery
and a beercan, and a dampened cigarette
next to the tree that has seen nothing

and the textbooks, full of distilled valentines,
that will be made from its passing
the mold of crass destiny from a pulp of ancient wood
the mask successful even when broken
the freedom of the will locked up in a bus-stop bathroom

windows are salt swept into corners
a scaffold of chipped floors
a barren place to parse the electricity of death
which the field and the flower could not open
the curve of the last barrier singing against a wind

we anchor the ceiling to a life of chimes
and do not speak of its bombing

*~*~*~*~*