After the Catacombs, Fall 2018
Ours is the work of dead ones
it’s ghosts fastened on the glass
a month’s toil gone
for a thirsty moment
on a hot Paris day
Ours is the work of dead ones
a skinny idea painted
for a moment in a hallway
descending
the same color as rust
Ours is the work of dead ones
our barley stalks growing down
into hidden ossuaries
to root in some
philosopher’s skull
Where did they bury the fleming
who first sipped Bière de Garde?
And did they even have a name?
Ours is the work of dead ones
the grandest inventions of our time
reverberating through a chasm, forgot
like the breed of the neighbor dog
an aunt’s birthday
Yes, ours is the work of dead ones
and years after we’re gone
monks will make furniture of us
Our rib in a pile of ribs
Our spine framing a throne
where it’s illegal to sit
Ours is the work of dead ones
but no one tell the animals
too small to see
parading through an ebullient mist
whose work is turning sugar to gas
and proud men
to sand and to bone
