It's not easy to carry a pyramid
into the sunset with a feather. The sunset
burns the feather, the pyramid crumbles.
It's not easy taking in all the doctors say.
The body is made of tar. Tar
doesn't like being above ground.
Magnets are useless, peacocks ferocious.
All songs are about falling apart which
provides at least a rhyme for heart
because all things must be sung to be
terrible enough. Instructively,
a saint makes an omelet, a saint
holds her arms out and some of the flames
form a crown. The soul leaves the body
with candy-wrapper crinkles. A window
is a sea. A red shirt approximates.
You can see where wings drag in the frost.
You can see faces beneath the ice.
A saint carries a fox under her cape
made of a thousand ears, ichor everywhere.
It's too bright. I can't find my way out.
I can't get drunk enough to warrant
ascension but I can wither yellow,
howl green. Not everyone gets to
lie down in a meadow.

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