CAMELOT LESS

without our merlin we have only round tables to passionately square
with our skewed love, camelot trodden underfoot of our migration
from grace. holding hands near the gallows of our dark poppies
like gypsy moths floating in wax

singing the end of things
with bone trumpets
that never blink.

without our dozy chainsaw, we are left to cut without sharp tongues
scything with silence, as we do now; droning wounds into the woe
of our discontent… with sparkles of aftermath, gossamer in the pelvis
of unwanted blue sky. like a hunk of dark on a rope
made from human
dare.