SANCTUM SANCTRECTUM

The soul is cutting garlic into imperfect rhombuses.
A painted ceiling is lower than before.
The knife has survived, stereo speakers are making
footnotes on a manuscript in the basement.
The soul is the body once it's learned to count.
The soul is a complication of breathing.


An alien within an alien, on a familiar globe,
with a triangular headdress, that one lunar world
heats with a numbing thought.
The soul is a sarcastic priest,
with only two pairs of shoes.


In the salted territories, squirming
on more than one bed-memory,
more than one bath.
The soul is related to math.


A ceiling with hieroglyphs is extending
into the walls.
An apartment is built from a smaller flame.
A mortgage is a bonfire
a house is a pyre for the senses.


You pay for death hotly, you pay for death coldly,
large birds and small snails are making noise.
The churches are closed, the museums are open,
the bars are explored to the bathrooms,
the soul has no schedule
and advances.