The spine snapped in two.
Showers of sparks—burning snowflakes—then out.
His rib-punctured lung… Stop it.
Bald white trunk & dead black bark, toc-toc. Small shrugs
in long black coats, their stripped pine whipping at the skyline…
swiftly unveiled, in twos and threes, ravens and the ideas
of ravens drip down onto the air, black silk scarves
pulling each other through the silk blue sleeves
in a wintry sky & out into the mind's eye to stall and dip…
Born under the sign of Stromboli, wrinkled
As the face of the two-thousand-year-old man
With skin cap tied with braided thong beneath
His chin, pulled from the bog with forceps, Ingrid
My mother, my father a guy who lived in the sky.
The shaman finds a mirror carefully slipped
beneath the water of a running stream
will open a window in the land of the dead.
Here, the yellow and umber leaves, doom boats
strapping the current, slip quickly over the dappled
bottom where rusted wheels and bent scaffolds backdrop
The Triumph of the Will as it simmers there, bubbling,
awaiting the buoys of resurrection.