You clench your sieves and sift them out
the body hangs like threads
pours down its raiments rain-like
The weather inside is never the weather outside
That death’s head is just a symbol
a distraction       Spirit still follows
In the textured plots we planted

no graves but cuticles grew A house
appeared           Could we live in it?

We cried because we grew
and we grew scared

But the parachutes overhead
graffiti’d with hope
told us something
of our happiness was true
some part at least
and kept it afloat

Was the leavening of our selves our souls?
Skins like tapers fly across the space — disappear —
the body once placed here traces itself in the air