Whistle down the bones
Exhausted from gumption &
Multiplying like twin voids
When the go-getters get all they got.
Failing backwards has its own aplomb;
Hieroglyphics of match-stick men
Humped on the back of a black Mariah
Divine a flight through the goalposts
On a crisp autumn afternoon.
The goat well-cooked,
The libations pungent and flowing
Like a crested river in Springtime.
The mountains lachrymose,
The sky pink and fertile,
The woman painting their eggs
And the men plaiting the fallows.