I remember the grief in Samuel
when Saul failed,
like the grief in Nile
when blood crept into it —
just like it creeps into the bones of
this earth.

The rage in grief is distant but distinct,
escorted by bits of frozen nuts
and wizened grains of desert sand,
white assembly of killing spectres in
a background of black eclipse with
lunar talons
and swords of claws
and jars of cold tears.

Oh, how Samuel grieved for Saul!

The mourning is immense . . .

Sempervirence fossilised
along abbeys forayed with hot silt
and Dane guns of lewd hunters

Pulsations and acrid fever,
with the disease of camels, are frequented by
a recrudescence of the mastodon,
In liaison with his extended kinsmen the dinosaurs.

We are livid with mourning,
for the soul of a toothless one
gone from us
this grey day of elegy
and season of potent grief.

Fetters exist, and persist, swinging in
our faces like treasures of hell
where we hear that bug-ridden mats
are spread for us;

there, chants of elegy
hoot,
and black furnaces boil
and smelt
the repast we are to devour.