5:41 pm | 15 April 2003 | infidel

You are sewing your lips to the blarney stone
And I am refinishing floors in the Palace of Winds

While the medical helicopters tumble past
Like dragonflies drunk on their small prey

And I am Rorschaching you over and over
Hasty to occupy your recently demilitarized heart

I am one to whom infidel has been permanently tattooed
I extend a flag of treacherous whiteness, infinite blank

I am waiting to be written into a decorous promenade
You have imparted something of Arkian order

It�s a paperclip wisdom, like shoes fettered on shelves
A crooked hobble so that neither is lost

White-coated, we read DNA like Dead Sea scrolls, but still
Remains can be best identified by our survivors

So would you recognize the musing of my shattered face
Or bones that carried hope like crumb-busy anthills?

No. I smile and batten down all sorts of hatches
We are a dead-end street to the Carnival of Dreams