poem || Jeff Harrison

Zero is the skull of Number
 
scratching up looks, why abashed so? you
fear of shades & their impious features? it's
meat, as the rose (listen! it's the mention,
sans verses, of the rose), that invites the cut

not the wondered dead, faultless & royal,
their unbudded hearts soon blooded
have we more crimson here, than they
pasted w/ clay, no shadow w/out, no caramel w/in
(inside -> / <- outside / <- inside / <- outside)
whether intact or w/ limbs dismay'd, whether
you shy to touch their ponderous softness, or
you're convinced skull'll thaw w/ sultry plumes,
& thirst arise far to speech, & throng, fidgeted in
wisps, w/ you, newly creatured, to curlicues