You have installed a voice that can soothe you: agents
of the eaten flesh, every body
a cocoon of change—
Puparium. The garden
a birthing house, sarcophagidae—
And green was so dark in the night-garden, in the garden’s
gourd of air—
green’s epitome
of green’s peace, the beautiful inhuman
leg-music, crickets’
thrum—
a pulse
to build their houses by,
each
successive molt
a tent of skin
in which skin can grow, the metallic sheen
of their blue backs
as they hatch out, winged and mouthed—
Like in a charnel ground, you sit and see.
In one of the Eight Great
Cemeteries, you sit and see—
How the skull-grounds
are ringed by flame, how they spread out under
a diamond tent, how the adepts
pupate
among bones—
saying I who fear dying, I who fear
being dead—
Refuge field.
See it now.
That assembly of sages you would have yourself
build,
to hear the lineage
from mouth to ear, encounter the truth-
chain—
Saying, Soft eaters, someone’s children, who gives them
refuge from want—
Cynomyopsis Cadavarena. On every tongue
they feed.
