Not enough dying?
Once more turning back
to cancerous walls,
luminous putrefying green?
Done with dream's embrace
of places and lips
believed beautiful?
Deny accepting love,
the phantom parrot of unearthed ruins?
Rain, rain. Black music.
These streets an exercise yard
for cheery cadavers.
The crucified still walk
and work. A crazy might mutter, "Light, have to get
to the light." But weather
holds cold and empty.
Blind the bustle of the dead,
perfectly tidy, perfectly dead.
The festival continues. Only hear
the sour metal fall of a new
night like an immense sheet of steel.