Refuge Field

You have installed a voice that can soothe you: agents
         of the eaten flesh, every body

         a cocoon of change—

Puparium. The garden
         a birthing house, sarcophagidae—

And green was so dark in the night-garden, in the garden's
         gourd of air—

green's epitome
         of green's peace, the beautiful inhuman

leg-music, crickets'
         thrum—
a pulse

         to build their houses by,
each
         successive molt

a tent of skin
         in which skin can grow, the metallic sheen
of their blue backs

         as they hatch out, winged and mouthed—

Like in a charnel ground, you sit and see.

In one of the Eight Great
         Cemeteries, you sit and see—

How the skull-grounds
         are ringed by flame, how they spread out under
a diamond tent, how the adepts
         pupate
among bones—

         saying I who fear dying, I who fear
being dead—

         Refuge field.

         See it now.

That assembly of sages you would have yourself
         build,
to hear the lineage
         from mouth to ear, encounter the truth-
                     
         chain—

Saying, Soft eaters, someone's children, who gives them
         refuge from want—

Cynomyopsis Cadavarena. On every tongue
         they feed.

More Poems by Dana Levin