& next comes all the expletives, the names
we have for sin, what wrong-doing has become. & when the dead
hold vigils – who is it for?
what happens to a language when
the last man who speaks it dies?
here’s a preposition — your body
as a dead language. & what if
we were on painkillers and sleeping pills
in the wake of our sad revolution?
what then becomes of the animals dear to us.
this old horse, this colour-dream of blacks
& obsidian, this material fiction dream-land,
this obscene repentance? you standing
on my balcony in the middle of the night,
wishing me dead? your body in the country,
in all of it’s miracles, tastes like a failed suicide.


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