From the vacancies

in punched-out states,

from the weaknesses

furnished in gold,

from the old ways

crying and bent

and the new ways

crying and warped,

I come with the outlined fumes

of a rotten splendor,

I come out of the rot

fresh like moss,

you can't see my spinning rims

or cascading chandeliers

until they land on your planned attack

with a dancer's troupe and cargo,

with a whip and ten fists,

with the mercy of disintegrated love.