Wild Horses Of Fire

To produce that failure
To represent the pain
Of others the living carcass
In a trial of innocence

Meat begets meat, fish fly-up,
Spill your guts in the air,
Strapped into the air
Like some Odysseus to his mast

What siren songs did you not hear
In your practice to profess
That failure to register the pain
No image will tell

What remains encases
Breath begets breath
But no one saves face
Since no one will be saved

Activity synchs these traces
The newspaper on any
Particular day
Becoming a withdrawal of day

Substituting hours for praise
To produce that failure
The world we would want inversely
Mourning becomes our joy

Affliction becomes a flight
From being afraid, presence escapes,
Tombs become archive-like
In the present

Deriving from these lips bounty praise,
Since nothing, since no
One will be saved
I take the world to be breath.