A., rifts in the plaster cast
fatten all unruly: fulsome heat
spends the morning’s parchment
and yearns for a new palm
to ooze over. Lava, flowing pulse
of the underbelly, charcoals
skin, heart, skeleton, spark,
(sundries of the walking spirit)
to Hell’s hardened workplace.
If there’s another way to dust
the history of man, pass under
the molten morning smog
and give me heatless death—depart
from spinal vents bursting, corralled
sudor from the last living sculpture
puddling blood iron, ore. Such silent pain,
this division into orphan halves, cleaved
under the hot throat of day’s final edict.
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