The dry grass has weathered
under the rain’s autumn knell,
mildew hangs under the rotting wood.

Over the blown grass, i envision
the slick abode of man – attached
to his flesh, married to the skin

like a snail. Clods of earth, far
cries from the primeval dust
root him to the scorched ground –

he can neither see nor move,
he is in fact a prisoner.
subject to five blind wits

of renowned myth. Above him
the glass he does not see,
behind – the curtain of

oblivion, straddling the dark
like a moon of blood. His body
is an oblation, i watch him

imitate the ethereal stars.
i watch him smile.