by Nick Montfort


They come down from the mountain,
stretch out, are thoroughly impressed
and stand, spines straight, all around,
once the voice of the wind,
now the voice of the dead.


A kind of heaven, an afterlife
of thought once fluid, bound. Yet
those here partake in mere pleasures.
They open themselves to eyes,
angels, desirous, liberal.


Emissary, wooer, the name
you are called is also borne
by those many things within you.
You salute, offer your body, you close
where your lord has placed his hand.

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