Finally I'm a sad pharaoh

surrounded in my church room

boxed in by all the pictures

I have taken.

Cymbals of a glad song are gone

to the furrowed woods

and the high paths for reels

of rubber.

Bridges extend past what ends

in my open summer

and barns levitate

on the avalanche's grain

my claw strikes the unwritten window

at the cemetery market

afloat in the articulate ooze

and fangs of autumn

one wish that they are cooling

one brought down to bone.