Name

- less of a ghost
but almost sacred,
the Fool's nude magick conjure
the secret voice of the morning's decay -
delegate and subtle,
rising in rapture to the fire
of the steel sky, its poison clouds die
in a perfumed gasp of throbbing air,
the haunted silence of a salted heart
where nothing grows -
The fever of eternity born always
into the long desire of Self,
dark ice,
glass memories that breathe
broken words
and we know only
the deformed reflection
of our Name.