Monday, August 15, 2011


Death’s a silent chaos
reigning on a cracking throne.
His ministers are covered
head to foot in open sucking mouths and spitting sores;

he commands them to be quiet
with empty eyes; he wants to be the only sound.
I thought when I got here there’d be fire,
but the floor is unlit sticky fluid

You can feel suspense in the trickling wind.
Everyone is covered

in red and yellow leaves;
they gorge themselves on light and on each other
in preparation for the endless winter days.