Beneath the crust of a battered planet

clinging to a cot with silver wings

canyons had always called to me

some fragrant abyss,

some flowing curtains

smoke draping all the bedrooms

of the damned

now the shelves lined with urns of ash

so neatly, brightly labelled

names that ring the rafters of this tomb

the ribs of some grim prophylactic womb.