Sludge Pit Hole, at Surface
Dry day on the plateau when everything is very dry;
when stone is bone, butterfly is wire;
when everything has exceeded its limit,
lost its flint click in grasses,
only the brass grasses bend and twitch
dulling clatter green
when breath goes dry;
its open mouth, drained sinkhole,
the dune of its tongue
is a trickling slight hiss;
words have no consciousness;
the river drills
towards its ascensions
Beacon Hill Inhumation (Re-Buried)
They put her in the ground
where the white moths complicate the evening
under the trees where it is dark.
They might have murdered her.
But there is little mercy
in the syndrome of the living.
Her indented present is airless,
mothless
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