Before the gallow crosses where necks
And dreams are brambled,
Where bones twist into a watery mixture
And blood runs foul,
My heart knew of love- hungered for skin and vein,
Now smells the maggots,
Wringing siphons in my liver.
My throat slakes before the wooden structure, my
To be struck down by death’s crooked feather;
Remember me, I wrote poetic,
Paper sundered from bones of worms-
Dawn shuts their earthen nothings as they swell,
I soon to hurry to their deepened holes
Down in the yard of her day.
Rejoicing, she dances over my skull,
Of a kiss, welshing faith, marrowed fly,
Lying likeness of love,
Quick, this is the real world;
One-sided skin of truths- a loth dream
That kicks the buried from their coffin sack;
Of our two sleepings, I never fell awake
(The photograph is married to the eye).