---

In the sands of the six days, under

the subdued, soft blow of

leashed locusts, imprecates its hobbling leg

and invites me, invites me to sit,

to sit for centuries below the light

(bluebells shaking canines and mane)

of a street lamp, where the Prayer waits

for me on a marble bench

and sanctify two dry little wings still

bonded to what no more exists.

Then cries out the Prex, then

cries out beyond the red crests

hiding the wounded leg, as far as

recognize the trumpets and a puppet

raped and slammed as the bells

of our narrow doors, sizzling and biting

like a hurting and dried throat:

“Do you want me as malediction?”

“Yes. Yes!

Havoc the firtrees, the breathes, and hair will be

the salt of Carthago.”