The flickering fire
in the barbered beard
and manicured nails
inspirits the dead skin
of the Celtic priest
swallowing scorched oatmeal.
How many had he enlightened
about ghostly will-o'-the-wisps
deep in the dark mosses
of mother earth's septic wound?
Here he now lies
naked as a new-born,
May's submerged forfeit
thrice bludgeoned,
festively strangled,
slit across the throat
for good measure
like cracked autumn grains
or club-spiked caterpillars
leisurely digested
in the murky domain
of tearing sundews.
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