Worms invade the iris, the anvil’s
turned to rust - what else? lest those
departed are somehow found in us.
What use is death to die with the dead,
& serve no need we know?
Art's not art whose art diminishes
the joy that love might grow. To dance
the dance needs more than me
to feel the way it goes.
We know not whence we've sprung,
my love - my fast is not your slow,
your dream or my conniving?
And therein hides the woe, the sting -
each brings a different darkness,
a song bestowed by what is broken,
a genealogy of night.
The holiest communion's not with God,
despite its sacred partition, but always
between the dead & dying,
and their memorized traditions.
'Tis love one spends to keep the life,
and make some life of living.
We are the Ancestors desire has fed
- a gallery of apparitions.
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