A Dead Song
They were ready
to suck the crowd. The child was pushed
into lentil soup, boiling, to appease the rain god.
Shining masks, the celebration starts;
surging a myth, crown of hawthorn,
The people lick their fingers,
feast for claws and incisers
I run for the cross, please wait.
Emptying tomorrow in the lifting
hands of blunt queen. The watercolor
was casting the vote.
A freedom descends on the wounded
legs, as they drag with nobility.
Thumb by thumb you clutch the tree.