Chunks of A Laboratory

It doesn’t happen here any more
Dead sounds echo and swarm among
Some fish trapped in a net of mechania
Like those lost children, who died, bereft of attendance
In strange situations, often as victims

There are three places where I once had teeth
Each one a travesty rich with trauma and memorial splendor
The most recent gash, before my lower right wisdom
A slot there, from which I pick juicy remnants of treasure
From this morning’s lonely breakfast

I still know the sun, the moon, lost friends
Who lived and died in estrangement from love
Wondering why, strumming guitars, painting
On the skins of people with a bit of money
Making graveyard images to wear in life

I would have you stop. Entirely. Right here
And know the unimaginable histories that brought us
To the Red Cliff where they seemed to die
But were, instead resurrected to a scene
Where angels sang and wept
Raising bodies from the sky’s bright signal

Here, it doesn’t happen
But we remember, in dances and plays
A distant rampart whose barriers
Gave us into living birth
Among trees and light, animals and sacred severences