In The Organs Of Your Marching Band

Far away windows of shattered visions,
The corpses that lie waiting
Inside of your salt:
The Jack-in-Box wound
In time and forever clinging gravity,
Soon you’ll become the exoskeleton
Of grinning thought:
Soon you too will lunch with the grubs,
And the white things which clean the room,
Before churning into
The confections of drifting air-
Here is the play we are in,
Dressing up to respect the dead on
Holidays of funerals:
The distant relations to which you are
A fast growing seed:
Blooming in the high basins for one season,
Tended to by the sunburn angels:
Soon too you will see the
Dead girl’s skull at the end of the rainbow,
The petit but savage necessities
Of change,
But for now you remain contently housed
In your music box,
the organs of your marching band….