I will read the Old-New Masters
at night, in the scraps of hours,
until my thoughts coalesce, thus:
a withering widow bows before black coffins-
black as the wood sheathing Japanese swords-
and distant, twinkling, somewhere,
carnival bells, ringing and
jack and james come out to play with
a bottle of liquor that tastes like mint and
find a monster in a car, moldskinned and grinning
thin and wicked teeth, pinpricks dotting his arms like
the tracks of Satan or worse and he-
and he-
break,
break it all,
break the old masters and the new and
burn their bones
until the smoke steals the stars away.
In the morning, their ashes are as good a paint as any.
