Dancing On The Head Of A Pin

There is no home to head for

Or unearth in the stitchless unraveling

Dropping down garment skies

When cul de sac coffins

Betray grounded relics

And bury fevered labours,

Prostituting history

And violating

The snatched eagle’s

Egg baskets,

Bouldering proud

And laid out on tribal lands.

Such absconded blood letting

Has swollen to hideous volumes of perfidious rain

Digging up the restless bones

And baking tears to mummified clay.

Dancing on the head of a pin

Was once the proud display

Ripe with flaming colours,

Until microburst wings

Were blown through

The keyhole’s stinging wind,

And great tales were quieted to death.