Senator Of The Exhumed Guests

Somewhere in this space-like city, in the dry, spiny grass
that winter did not
chew
his elements sing in unison. A choir of Carbon, Oxygen etcetera.

Or on his knees, he wishes he lived in the rainforest.

Under rotting wood, fraternizing with the centipedes and dung beetles.

Army ants haul crucifixes ‘cross his breakfast table.

This widower eats his banana and says his wife’s name, which makes him
vomit, and he is joined by the council of apes.

They look at him as they cross things off of lists.
Why are they crossing those things off of lists, he wonders. And why
are they looking at me while they cross them off?

The shadow has come across
and the words are gone, they tell him.
Tonight we eat a tiger’s head for dinner.

I drift to sleep and feel drunk thinking about him. He

never stops
eating. He

takes huge steps through the storm and halts it like a dog.