There's a liquid tiger

in my mercury eyes

bones writing on rice paper screens

with arterial tongues

ghosts drifting between transparent shelves

selecting shapes from dying dancers

the glowing trash that spells an ancient name

wires that tell where the lungs are hiding

ponds of jellied vapor

that keep the key in the flashing fog

stripes lashing like the beams

of the last raw god

claws climbing the ship side

of painted gold that glides

and has its own pinnacle's whistle

a mouth of folded wings

dripping like a question mark

on these shores of uncertain mercy

roaring at the sulfurous film

and the lunar dancers

growling for the vacant halls

and a spirit thirsting to be thirsty

drinking from a radiant wound