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In this landscape of flowering skulls
You turn to me to tell me of
Great octopi forming letters
Beneath the sea,
A desperate message for whom
And who taught octopi how to spell?
Spells cast and broken daily.
That’s the last I see of you!
In the back of the hearse, a smaller hearse,
One million unique snowflakes
Edging closer to the flame,
One phase moving into another.
Transmogrifications abound:
I’m a French millipede
Understanding the underside
To French shoes and stiletto boots,
Everything else Greek to me
Except for the ruins, universal language
That makes a lot of money.
