Rozrywa Szwy Ciszy

the bellringer will come forth—wrinkled like autumn earth—and pull the long legs of hanged men like a rope

under the lost-in-thought grave of clouds, over leaves like bloody tears

arks carry the heads of decapitated moons to the other shore

wings torn from ravens line the streets where the dead walk

into autumn I flow smaller with every step, into fields sown with specters, into columns of dead paeans