Out of the plague with plumes

I came calling for kisses,

filling silver carts

with silver onions

calling to the clouds

for golden bread,

making what could be made

with tormented blood.

In the mold with diamonds

jostling for articulate space

watching a fleet of beds

from rooms long torn away

sent into seams of water

with infinite ways.

Let the guitars clang

at their filthy apex

and the dungeon wounds wheel:

let them be ripe for service

at the bright mirage

with the birds that the breezes heal.