for maya chrusecz

the ten o’clock gold crushed death
burnt the clay and gold window
dividing good from water in leather squares
and fixing the alert fish in place with a pin

cooking golden insect eyes
I am what buzzes bad in the heat in
the beating of my striated heart

the bones too are spoons for your soul
but we want to reconstruct
green sound beneath porcelain
all asleep in the skull

and chase down those little men in their vowels
cut them off riding the train alongside their sonority
and chase down those little men in their vowels little
fire in the chalice
and chase down those little men in their vowels
chase down those little those little men in their vowels