Undercity

Beneath,
the walls yawn
and open
like a cat's mouth.

Tunnels wend
through cathedral air.

Moths
zapped by iridescent
backs.

Rank files
of cabinets
stuff the mezzanine.

Gnashed
bodies become
sleeping bags
for the unsuspecting.

Fingertips tap
light notes
on the breathy
organ,

troubling
silence with a throb
of sound.

Insects sleep, all of them.

A warm wind
rises
through a honeycomb
of antechambers,

filling the crevice with
bone-white,
cloud-grey
blood.

Musicians twirl
their instruments of flame,
crisping music.

Months are crunched
underfoot.

An orb of light
patrols the intestines.

Bait.

Barley and fennel
are the national flowers.

The moon seeps.

All the books
are full of pictures.

Every
face contorted
with pleasure.