Long blades soaring over tender skies

from the wind of space,

from the ripped envelope

of anti-matter,

tricking a punctured globe,

red rivulets in clouds of grayish blue

spelling names of trapped circular gods,

the fatigued inertia of angels long fallen

to a stony earth,

rings moving from fecund eruptions

in the articulate core, sanctified fire

of lesser weapons melting,

bones talking that have no home

in desiccated cities

or barren countrysides

where material men have harvested all

and a song is lacking

that now returns in a sexed ball bearing,

in a sculpted seething

and a chandelier of knives that moves

to strip a starless dome.