A Matter of Course

Of course I died last week,
and speak

The run of a river leaves no wake;
the proud dog hobbles in sorrow;
the clouds gather rust.

Of course the words are upside down;
the sage is a child, whining,
the Woman gives birth to dust,
and Sky rots under us.

Of course the pit is bright,
the sacrifice is brought to slay us;
the killer loves us all
and brings us baskets of fruit.

Of course he does.

Of course
He does.