ORDER
Plenty of people, the earth rattles in disgust,
heavy with rain and sweat-swollen skin...
the bodies shake in unison to the beat of one more hand
dropped low at the base of a skull,
cracking down the order of spineless centuries, lives unfolding
like fleshless, rotten fruit; splitting open whole universes
of starlit decay and renewal; finishing up where we never left off.
Plenty of time, the earth counts off seconds
flat in the hand of a sleeping god
of war or fertility,
delivering the message of destruction and rebirth
on a thick tongue,
pulled out black from the back of the mouth...
blood coughed into rivers of viscous thought,
sticking slowly to one another's lives in a prayer
delta, waiting for our sunken ships to be dragged in
by our chains
of not-so-well-oiled routine.
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