Joke Moon

If the Throne of a City is struck
By the butcher, and the baker
And the candlestick maker
If the beggars are horseless
Numberless still
Pointing as high as the Moons
If the dumb and the deaf
Are seen in a City
The locusts are spinning
In the curtains and in the dust
And the tip of your tail
Is behind your eyes
And under your smiles
The rivers are gathered
Covered with clouds
If the floorplan and structure
And her statues are signless
And the swallows cease singing
In front of the flock
If it rains razors, and murders, and slaughters
If the Saint Fox is crowded
And crowned by a blow
If the codes in the stars
Are the codes in your arms
And the number you wear is formed like a wheel
The kite and the eagle
And the crop and the drop
And the notes in the depths
And in the dance of your breath
Are seen in a City set upon a Hill
Sulphur and ebony, tamarisk and clay
And the City is sliding
Moving like Dogs' Teeth
And the Moon had moved backcrack
Beyond the eyes of the Gods
Forest and trust and glut
And Carnival -- a glove
On a snake in the cracked Crown
At the wake the Sun is dust
And the bronze and the gold
And the Summer Sun
Turns sketches of scribbles
It's a river of words carrying
Deserts and shutters
And a bowl full of spells
Move your eyes from the gaze
The Moon is dead now --Joke Moon!
Rabbit and hare in the Martyr Face
By trap and snare and man --
"Kill them all," says Peter Pan