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The Dead
And in frozen soil, our hands push
like daisies upward to sky's cream of mouth
as if to talk by signal.
You cannot know us
or feel our ether drift
among your respectful weekdays.
We dance with the eyes of those that we killed
out of terror.
The rack of our claws tears the flowers
for no reason.
You cannot know us
though we swim between you
We hide in the holes in breeze-blocks.
Our tongueless jaws grasp
at the salt rasp of the earth's hoard,
as we crunch its deaf sand, our cold reward.
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