Aftermaths of Autopsy

by Douglas Blazek

I drag these bones over
rocks to a spot
to fold their hollow
into a hole.
Here I shovel.
Here I lower.
Here I dirt their gall.

They are strife.
Despite disguise.
I describing I.
Strife.

My eyes fill with grave lice.
Finally nothing is annihilated.

Everywhere: siteless
parasites, cite–by–cite, digest
the paradise of light.

Neural in a universe of nerves,
reality–infested lexia
nibbles its underpinnings.

Aftermaths of autopsy:
story wardrobing story.
A vernacular taxidermist
stuffing a mummy’s vocabulary
with ventriliqual words.

How the earth is heard.