And Also The Trees Maps In Her Wrists And Arms
In the tent of powder and lace Vultures pick at a carcass that feeds by hand Longing to decay Waits to hear the sound Of their wings slowly heave as they fly away Some will stay for days There's maps in her wrists and arms And the dust lies like snow around the bed Glowing white, a sculpture of bone Or a jewel like a crumpled, distorted moon Shivers in her mind If she moves too near It shatters so quickly, leaves nothing behind The old lady sighs Sometimes when she lifts her eyes The room has filled with flowing sheets of silk There's maps in her wrists and arms And the morphine surges terror bread and bliss In the tent of powder and lace She can hear some violins, watches the strings Threading through the room
