The Cave of Hypnos: Early Poems

Elysium

The transparent doves
die slowly
in your fingers.

Wings,
thin as blades of grass,
scrape against your palm.

So this is heaven,
you pray,
hoping you are wrong.

Thin men
wedged in the eyes
of needles,
faces blank
as wet cement,
congratulate you
as they pry
the gold filings
from your teeth.

Several dwarfs
chisel your name
into the sides
of new cars
and smile.

Everyone
you have ever known
is there
armed with
butcher knives.

Suddenly,
the lights
go out.