to maya chrusecz


the golds of 10 o’clock have broken death

burned the window in clay and gold
separate the good from water in leather squares
and the alert fish set with a pin

cook golden insect eyes
i am the bad vibration of warmth
in the beating of the striated heart

bones are also spoons for your soul
but we would rebuild
green sonorous under porcelain
sleep in the skull

and pursue the little men in their vowel
cut them off by train while the bell rings
and pursue the little men in their vowel
the little fire in the chalice
and pursue the little men in their vowel
pursue the little the little men in their vowel