The craft of my enemy is my only aim
its perfect end. The great anvil is an eye, cornea hard
good as new. The nodding tongue
agrees my discipline is fine, if tone deaf.
Not dependent on confinement
the psyche is diminished, buried, then quarried so.
One stone rests in the ear, rolls like a torso
in the new, smashed on consignment.
How can we take it, so knee deep in tragedy?
There’s a circle of girls, a circle of laurels
on each blank head, perfectly voiceless. With intricate phrasing
their white clothes oscillate and vacillate, walk on by.
Bright flowers are a bride, held dearly in the breath.
Ship lights fade away, hard as sarcophagi.