Subcutaneous Triptych

Carry your sounds
like a wound,

a camelback
prophet,

sighing in whispers,

the dragging of
a fractured limb

on the back of

a wounded animal.

Carrying the notes,

harmonies made
distant,

melodium and
melancholia

made like a lithe
figure,

dancing before
the minstrel’s post.

Tied to the
livening

of a souless gaze.

All for the cause
of a life made happy,

all-neglecting
of what lay deeper.

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Plait

Plights of the blighted
in the plaited folds of
communication
breaking down.

Sinners of the oldest songs
sing in unison with
the pipes beating out:

One
Two
Three

One
Two
Three

The song is in remission.
The timbre has dulled
the key.

The strings are broken
and the heads are snapped.

The soundless sing the symphony.

Dry Your Bones

We found the shallow hearts
taken away in their grimness.

A collection of fancy woes
and tiny feet,
brimming with the dust
of the dead.

A forbearance of things, unseen,
a world, unsaid,
a universe, unspoken
into nonexistence.

Shall we take the hand
lent to us by the gods?

And shall the dance be made
of circles in the river of sand?

Dry your bones, you weeping eyes
and gird your flesh for the coming,
the shunning, the stunting and
the wilt of the withered hand,

the glossing eye and the circles,
circles, circles.