the god-trappers
by Wm. Rike on February 09, 2007
An aura of omens encircled our bodies
in the shimmering seconds of satisfied collapse.
Thoughts wreathed our tongues like boas
constricting us with mouthfuls of decorative down.
Handsome peacocks gave out death-skrieks
in a vespertine stillness of baptismal night,
and we agreed that beauty is plume-deep only,
that worship is purest in a blinding darkness.
We slew the strange bird of our mutable mouths,
formed quills from feathers, drew ink from shadows,
and drafted a liturgy of reverent slumbering
which could be read only in the glow of our flesh:
the lamp of our bodies on an altar of dream
attracting dim deities worthy of sacrifice.
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