Thursday, September 29, 2011


Although the Grave, since long before life was
and thus could end, lay before him, open, and the world,
its muscular mountains, its endless depths
and cliff-lipped face all fit beneath his heel,

he danced with Death, clasped hands with Death
and held her stinking body close. He let
her arms wrap hard around him, black hair winding round his face—
for us, her tongue-tied loves, her semi-slaves. He came

to end all things that rot and kill:
the moonlight swimming in her eyes,
the way her hands seem warm and safe
from far away. He came to kill our master,
take her place.