XIII. La Morte

XIII. La Morte

Monologizing poses—I thought, exiting the repurposed mirror and barre
Room—Did they communicate fitness, where our rival attitudes kept time
To the step aerobics; the patiffe playing out until specification disturbed—Collagen
Becoming ever more inconsistent, dissolves under tensile loads—A thin split
In the shared wall was a high point of the gibe—Shoots of low-pruned mulberry
Haunt lattices—Their silkworms; too heavy for their wings, whose rearers unravel

Cocoons, as if spooled by another god, in whose capacity it is to assimilate; not unravel,
These polemical trades—Lift gauze veils, advance in ballistic trajectory while at the barre—
Engrave the threshold of a pharaoh’s daughter, you exist otherwise in brackets of a mulberry
Tree—Just as a silkworm’s equivocal patterning is mistaken for traces of blood—Stand-ins for time
Where an equally magnificent copy uproots itself, cursive in dense silence, to receive and split
The difference—Routes of basal lamina and eye lens, knotted then undone—Collagen,

Exhaustible in its implications, whose destruction yields differential equations of collagen
Accumulation in a healing wound, or for securing dental implants—The blunder of unraveling
These snares is what came long before—The batik’s branches of coral, with its split
Profile of a parrot fish expelling a silken thread from its bowels—Similarly, at the barre

Among our own clouds, we grasp at reflections duplicated within, underestimating time—
The silk is recovered, but the lining entirely gone, it could be tinted with either oxblood or mulberry

We do not hasten to tell of the color of the serpent improvising a rod—The resulting mulberry

Accommodated in tile is purified for anthocyanin, pigments which hold potential for collagen
Peptide maintenance and repair—Preservation, to one pierced by some definite arrow; not time,
Needs rebound, for targets as hard as the mind—Those predella scenes of Sebastian unravel
A narrative of a common death, and ricochet—Prospero, whose improbable kindling he split

With an unheard pitch, used a resilient fiber that can be drenched, dried, then fired—Barre

Exercises do little then to define a mutant camouflage—They are illusions of balance, at the barre,
We are little inclined to pay attention to—Assembled before double doors, we neglect the mulberry

Glimpsed beyond the room—Desire is still an intruder, with a marked reduction for banalities of split

Key rings; in my case, I would rather be burned down to single urn—Congealed protein, collagen,
Supplies the mouthfeel, where an index finger plucks that interior treble string; so much unraveling
Of the sensory, never to have any precise name—Strung upon the ring, or removed from it, time

Inalterably shears the collagen coiled around spurs of bone—An excess of it, over time
Constricts the fingers into claws; struggling for a handhold, for a calibrated whole, at the barre—

For the first time—An altar’s harvest of blood—Instars eviscerated in workhouses—Unraveling

Cocoons of your clothes, with your hair worn up to the nape of your neck—The mulberry
Is indelibly dark for our memory, when the reality accepts a tired pose—Recombinant collagen

Leisurely spun out by silkworms, for culture plates and cosmetics, is an option which splits

Consumers, who nonetheless honor personal appearance to its fullest—Splitting time

Between reflections to which we give our names—Unravel these issues of silk from mulberry

Branches, and resolve left-handed rises of collagen dissolving ourselves at barre routines.