OUR INSTRUMENTS HAVE NO NAMES

With a wild stagger
the slender wind slices
through the blue day

the sound of lace
burning the tongue as

a dark red bruise blossoms
into shadow tendrils
of night song

the moon's black milk
is essential for delicate chaos

delerious blood chants through
the apparatus of bare language
pulsing with electro-choral vision

languid years fall away
the breast aches with dusty dreams
and a symphony of vivid desires

and for a few precious moments
we are shadow gods who shine
like elaborate music.

November 17, 29, 1999