saw-like chins
fret each other’s veins,
interlocked on the damp lid
of a deep coffin.
last golden rites
sprinkle over their parched lobes.
ants scrawl
like a disjointed psalter.
what makes these leaves special?
flecks more ruby than the rest?
a rare sheen or escher-like
parquetry?
rather, nothing –
except pen and eye,
a lachrymose footstep
some outcast took,
opening a diary,
kneeling to pray.
