afterBlake
Inside the elephant bones we jump and shake and vibrate. We
devour their pleasant memory; a febrile sensation, also a sort of
weakening. We dress as the beasts: a ribcage for a shell: we beat
in their hollow; a femur as new weaponry. These machines in the
night are frightening, white spectacles on the hill, as we thunder
down inside, shaking the ground. Slowly, under the stench of hot
meat, we fashion shadows from ideas we considered under the cover
of a hot afternoon sun. The carnivorous moment rises from wind
and dust to say:
what magnificent
and rude attempts are these
to chain the earth to the sun?
We, in answer, do an awkward funeral dance, lifting our clumsy feet
to the sky, lowering our large heads.
