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.