You Were Gone, Little One

You were gone, little one
and a dark hatching could
cool if it were not around.

Spice of air bleeds through
spreading wild fires through
each of our eyes as grass.

A hopspun into trails of feet,
long snow slides and piny
(your problem if wanted)

clanking men holding wooden
mallets and wooden spikes
to drive into wooden heads,

crucifix land, head-strong
armory made of rusting nails
and rotting floorboards.

Everything turned upside,
even the maggots yelling,
hissing like pan-fried,

you wanted your intestines
gutted, buttoned, gluttonous
rites of the boy and girl

hand in hand all to supper
where blood sausage and
tuberculos' coughs cool us.