Vehemently, a product of catacombs surrounds us within the screams-
we’re inside mouths of burning entities, and strictly politically,
we should’ve taped these mouths long ago- a yellow crime scene taping,
cementing how the misshapen shapes in the night nicked
a lot more than some fancy crockery-
as we turn a tender brown in between these broken walls, there seems
to be nothing that needs to be said, and so as we begin talking again,
I can tell you about the houses I’ve marked with hushed whispers in the alley
afraid to articulate the claims of custody that belong to this silent
brooding of dismay, almost a lost child in the house of decay-
the fallible lining of this burning house as the frames collapse forms
the infallible boundaries of our doctrine- there may be very little to savage
from the bloodied mesh of old men with puncture wounds, and sweet
crooked teeth that old, French women are buried with- such an opulent
dome of memoirs and yet, we find the static of theology here-
when you touch my sides, a warning of calamity, I remember who I am again-
in the face of this war we’ve made for ourself, the begging, the pleading
to let the fates accept our lack of sustenance, the intimacy of death as we walk
through our insides, I am reminded of what love feels like
when it is more than just a bargain.
Elusive Mummers 