I ate the rose a month before it bloomed,
A stranger to the idea of splitting creatures,
I translated my body into this sound,
Little lost artifact, willed into fleeing steam.

I ate the noose a year before the trope
Could decay into fish-hook threats.
They daw the river, cut my belly black.

I ate this key to a door unmade,
A door! A door! between the Holy and Profane!
Yes, the door will be unmade!
Yes, the tomb will not fade!

A photograph turned to bone in the sun.