Off-blue wall light and standing lamps that don’t stand
A single magazine on the table advertising crochet
The abyssal antechamber hangs off an endless
The kind of corridor you find in pyramids
Or don’t find
We waited for nothing and then someone came
To announce it was ready and read about crochet
Instruments could not play or work
A wide room, a single flower pot and hotel bedsheets
I walked over to his vacancy
The stillness does not end so I walk to the soft head
I kiss his blue lips that are blue like strange lipstick
I push my tongue into his cold mouth
His beard has not grown back to tickle my nose
He is dead and we all seem to know
So we leave the flesh on the bones to rot a little
Before the flames
The pyramid makers did not understand.