Saturday Poem

From Poets.org today:

The Dead
by Mina Loy

We have flowed out of ourselves   
Beginning on the outside   
That shrivable skin   
Where you leave off   

Of infinite elastic   
Walking the ceiling   
Our eyelashes polish stars   

Curled close in the youngest corpuscle   
Of a descendant   
We spit up our passions in our grand-dams   

Fixing the extension of your reactions   
Our shadow lengthens   
In your fear   

You are so old   
Born in our immortality   
Stuck fast as Life   
In one impalpable   
Omniprevalent Dimension   

We are turned inside out   
Your cities lie digesting in our stomachs   
Street lights footle in our ocular darkness   

Having swallowed your irate hungers   
Satisfied before bread-breaking   
To your dissolution   
We splinter into Wholes   
Stirring the remorses of your tomorrow   
Among the refuse of your unborn centuries   
In our busy ashbins   
Stink the melodies   
Of your   
So easily reducible   
Adolescences   

Our tissue is of that which escapes you   
Birth-Breaths and orgasms   
The shattering tremor of the static   
The far-shore of an instant   
The unsurpassable openness of the circle   
Legerdemain of God   

Only in the segregated angles of Lunatic Asylums   
Do those who have strained to exceeding themselves   
Break on our edgeless contours   

The mouthed echoes of what   
has exuded to our companionship   
Is horrible to the ear   
Of the half that is left inside them.