An Afterlife.
Through one another rushed phantasmagoric.
there where the hips scissored and the thick hair streamed
mimicked, didn't we, the gestures of the living.
Too sudden even for ourselves how the air sipped lip
hard about our ankles, worked at our hands,
shoulders, as if inhaled our each echoing organ.
Drawn across the entire breadth of its disassembled spaces
had entered the intervals.
What drifted dissolute in continuous expansion.
Yes, there in that afterlife of our own making where
the very letters of the alphabet itself
as if floated in broken constellations would cling,
wouldn't we, to those scattered sections.
Wrap, desolate, about so much billowing scaffold.
Hold to whatever volutes still held, it would seem,
the least promise of some minor, altogether
fortuitous relocation.