"Beinhaus" by Michael Keller

I watched the snow ascend in a spiral dance,

Courted by gusts of unseasonable winds,

But in her gentle excitement, her hands

Dissolved like prayers whispered softly through the din

Of crowded streets. Did she understand

The wanton nature of her lover's sin?

Or hers was a surrender I cannot feel--

A selfless union imagined and real.

What fetid breath is borne by rusted grates--

My catacomb's furnace consumes the meat

Discarded from ivory bricks, whose ornate

Shapes I free, then mold like settled concrete,

Inspiring the marrow dust that gyrates,

Rising like burnt offerings to God's seat.

By night I decorate my catacomb

With fire scars and polished bone.