Web Prayer for Milosz

From euphoria at the blossom's destruction

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in time-lapse, save us. We quicken & hiss like serpents,

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our tongues flick us forward. We are studies of peritonitis

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at the U.S. Forensic Death Farm in Tennessee. From the stunned

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half-smiles of the decomposed, we rise. A dwarf inflates

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to a giant, bloated like a Macy's float. The corpse

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is arranged in Holding Area 232a: the effects

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of assault rifle fire have been digitally photographed

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for the muse to download for this page, an aggregate of signs

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that I have fashioned with her aid. Tell me

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to what end, o master. Without you words are pure convention.

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Show me where the soul clings on, the Ineffable Name.

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The language of the old belief, has it perished?

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Keystroke, rictus, click, contusion: the apparitions gather like breath.