Body is the essence of night, a falling of flowers
A few particles of the night, on the way to dawn.
The red of their stems is the feet up, faces down
Quietly buried in the earth of the dust, leaf-swept
By women of organic garbage, to greater dusk.

Bodies are spoken of well in heaven, their seats
Reserved where beauty is condemned to dance
In tasseled silk blouses that are not quite there.
The bodies exist till our minds permit, not there
When our eyes become shut, on not intact skulls.


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