Four Dungeon Songs
That unlife means “no trees”—shade knows this
well. Wraiths – caused by love or some other
headlessness – are the dead who don’t under-
stand thoughts that haunt them, rules of being
sprites, or live’s past tense: late; age or sleep.
Seriously, they only demand
pots & pans in the umbra of late-night
T.V. Ghosts only speak in tongues of
moaning. What is no? How to say leave?
Baked, Grilled, or Deep Fried
O, now the world’s diets are changing.
Sleep comes formed like a husk. Once another
hunger, but a lack of animals
makes me think my favorite monster
is whatever happens. Soon enough
recipes, scarce songs, leave me wanting
seeds or perhaps beans. I’m beginning
to believe I am vegetation—
to fill out whole like some kind of tree.
Night last happened in 1998, the herbs of which
were all homespun constellations—the
Milky Way a giant sash for evening
to wear. I slept through the moonsong & much
of the crops across the fields which call
to sunlight with throats full of germ &
stardust; dead-eyed or night-blind. As for
slumber, I am certain it exists
in horoscopes. Or dreams sometimes.
Navigation without Compass or Map
Now the day heads towards the spirits
of the flies. & sleep is a meander
to retrieve other words for lover
or search out more seekers for coffins,
adventure, & adjacent verbs to lose
aside sinners & synonyms. Next terms,
borders: lines to alight; direction:
some information shared with a crow.
But, ramblers always go someplace, right?