Green Eliah sits his head
Rotting down to his guts
Looking as a man swimming
In the black lung of a slagheap
‘Last night I hit the galleries
Hollow heads they were all
Like rooms of empty libraries
Or newborns painted as old men
Women with pink tongues yellow beaks
Menwomenthings like flat roadbirds
Wildlife painted onto the walls
Chirping out of their cuckoo throats
To say nothing of the art: a man
Stared at a screwdriver for a time
Till his eyes came unfastened
And rolled off down the stairs
After salting the wound of my mouth
My memory becomes smudged
I cornered myself and watched
The flame moving toward the spotless moths’
