WEBVTT

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An Afterlife.

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Through one another
rushed phantasmagoric.

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there where the hips scissored
and the thick hair streamed

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mimicked, didn't we, the
gestures of the living.

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Too sudden even for ourselves
how the air sipped lip

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hard about our ankles,
worked at our hands,

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shoulders, as if inhaled
our each echoing organ.

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Drawn across the entire breadth
of its disassembled spaces

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had entered the intervals.

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What drifted dissolute
in continuous expansion.

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Yes, there in that afterlife
of our own making where

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the very letters of
the alphabet itself

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as if floated in broken
constellations would cling,

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wouldn't we, to those
scattered sections.

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Wrap, desolate, about so
much billowing scaffold.

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Hold to whatever volutes
still held, it would seem,

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the least promise of
some minor, altogether

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fortuitous relocation.