Trumpet sinks in the mud
of the hills, between the roots
like work-hard fingers, flat
tribute to death pounded permanent
by the heels of the living.

Rimmed by fire, dancing twirl
cabin-size transparent dice,
praise with the sense orbs of the buttocks
gravity's lips, acapella buried
here in the click track of our drum machine steps.

Sin runs under the town,
in its sanction of holographic leather,
shining the drains with a sarcophagus hand,
moving in frontal fur what they eat
in jellied light from the hand
of a cloaked heart's master.

And the same from stone
horn buried in the hill
that it's ever gave.