A silent congregation
of heads hang about me.
They stare while I pretend
to live in and out of sleep.
What appears to be a church
floats on the lake
a bloke walks on water. Sinks.
A blabbering of voices
becomes a hymn.
A lot of us (breaths
like rotten eggs) are crowding in/
around red linings of an early
morning individually
wrapped in mist.
Spectators stand or sit on graves
in mangled clothes
eating bits of bible dried flowers
lumps of paraoa
some refitting clumps of hair
and skin.
Two silhouettes put together
a cobber whoıs having trouble
picking himself up.
Iım singing
or maybe itıs the wind
fluting through my nostrils.
Mars watches like a ratıs
red eye. The sky crushes closer.
Bones bend.
These people don't last for long.
They dissipate. As soon as you
touch my shoulder.