How can a halo of vigorous flies
indicate anything but renewal?
The truth--simply beautiful—
what’s rotten, nothing more. Tonight
smudge pots repeat no recognizable
constellation. Even blemished fruit,
eaten in darkness, tastes lovely.
Such ripeness dousing the air.
In conclusion, we call that wind
once blown over a carcass ripe.
If a body can prove the soul exists
then flesh is narrative. The spirit, lyric.
Even blood drained serves a purpose.
Even shattered glass will glisten.