by the book –

inside these corridors blue with shame

the golden eagle flies, it attains

justice on the wing for those forgotten, those

amazed by the cold water rushing in

our veins; We, who

break from the limp into the trot

unearth our secrets as cadavers

in a gentle mist -- all that remains

is tempered with a quiet yearning

for nomenclature -- the picked apart fruits

and vegetables lying disordered on a towel

awaiting preparation -- these

bees' eyes and antlered stags

succumb

to our vibrant justice; they

are wicked cornerings of tulips

and ice -- I

stand here naked, half-amazed

at the broken sentences that urge from my heart

to my voice and into

a dry heat posing under a glass mirage

so many splintered limbs

broken

in our accounting . . .

*