Serenity sprouts amidst the wreckage.
What has already retreated to clay
can no longer die.
What is broken is not at risk.
Bullshit. Serenity rots amidst the wreckage!
It must have flesh—
more than a dressmaker’s dummy
to hang this weight!
What dreams of clay is already dead,
forgetful of the flesh,
little more than uneven ground
beneath the feet of those who still move.
What is broken is more at risk than ever!
The pieces scatter in the face of abstraction.
Where is the flesh?
What happened to the skins we wore?