Like any man on the cover of a
book,
delicate in perfect black,
I am preparing to die.
Look—
always my hands are at work
turning over theories
to examine their supple
undersides.
A stone grew wings
so I caught it in my mouth.
From a falling silver apple—
my tombstone, the finest fruit.
Hold a mirror
when the moon is two
shivers past new,
and the dark reflections of
all those literary men,
those preening, dapper, orgiastic
humming organisms
will glitter for the alchemist in
you
then vanish
leaving behind their legacy—
a mound of teeth and bones.
