Agony

We drive down tongues of streets
in a black, silver-beaked falcon.
Past pot-holes sunk in nebulous water,
the upturned palms of God.

The casket sloshes about in the rear,
bumping against the walls
of the coach’s interior,
creating a soft, rattling lull
of bone grinding against bone.

Through the murky veil
of plastic bubble wrap, the lid
is a creamy, sterling sky of blue.
Cloudless.

One can only taste
the folds of opalesque satin,
skin-like,
layer upon euphoric layer:

one immaculate sea
of a strangulation,
one deliciously gilded womb
of an agony.