---

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.”

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