What is repaired, homegrown,

like Tartarus’ own, the make of the dead,

rise up, give Voice to thine own


I know that it is.

I know, as one knows

not anything, but

does, at least somehow.

What is material, is real,

I have gleaned reflected

in Death’s own very eyes

like fine glass coins.

Yes, Hades, your Dog,

and the thundering River

like an explosive artery,

I can compare you all to nothing,

but the delicacy and hoarse,

husky eyelids upon the temple

of the ground, strange body, vessel,

retains so much

that is lost

in the instant of thy touch,

the shattering bliss

of peeling rust blown off,

the smash and gush of

golden blood ablaze,

the old, liquified Sun

in our boiling veins,

the heat of the Earth, vibrating skull,

and Immortality a cup

to be drained

like a Moment of laughter.