The city, tumulus and cenotaph,
grows meadow-bright in the char of housefires,
the rank and rotten fabric of a child's dress.
The engines are rusting, silent room after room
the last word rings, the phone, unanswered
petroleum plastic fetish.
A mill willed to the devil and his fire.
The books swell with rain, with silverfish
with a swollen tongue of affluence we do not speak:
let them burn.
Let strange gods return to the stones,
Let the hollow galleries ring with vandals,
flowers grow from the midden.
We will drag our plows through the bones of the dead
We will pepare a ruined house for our caller,
the dwarf with blazing eyes and rotten teeth
A flowering tree in the skull of a car
a circle drawn in the dust.