The Treble Poems

The table was heavy with nothing. Knives and cups and plates waiting sober for the thrill of lips. The humble epiphany of touch that gives life to dead things. Outlines all those ghosts. So we can see what we've lost.

Her silence the scale all his words were weighed upon. Her silence like a prostitute between her legs. A volcano of pointless sex. Incinerating everything in its path.

Her fingers the ambulance. Too slow. Too small. Too late. The dead strewn. Dried flowers on the hips of the wind. Scattered. The living. Contorted placentas. Spilling out after rushed abortions.

Blood like lions roaring. Skin like hyenas stealing.

All these dead things.