three brothers we;
now Leopards spots hang happy as a nail;
the barking trees dance sundown to a crawl;
as peasants to the Porcupine
the thin man sucks the colours from the dead.
fortune or faith? bullhorn or water-bed?
no final wish for the heart that turned his eye.
his final breath came silent as a snake;
what now we do,
we strangers in our perfect pose of sorrow?
we have walked more miles than the roots left unattended.
hungry men no older than the sleeping violin;
too proud to beg a solitary tear;
how many mothers came and stared us down?
face down to grave we dared plead providence
searching for the birth-marks on the flowers as they wilt.
in Thanatos disguise
we dared to wish them dead as apricot;
but how dead are we?
as dead as circus-hands on the black swans neck!
less honest than the working day is long;
three brothers we,
face down to grave still pleading providence;