Krishna Carries the Dead

You were the need to think. So long ago
an orphan wave beseeched you to walk
between tricks and needles, then witnessed
a slow reprieve. Found in a small
shaft of light you were the thoughtfulness
to write. Rest easy now, lost soft boy your
crime is quite alright. In the abandoned
shrine your stumbling cry was left unheard.

Do not be frightened of the dead man’s bog.
There is an Aerial Crane lining volts inside
the mud, a gentle spirit. It has a sister jolt,
a lightning Seaweed Wreath, draped in honour
of a lava glue under the depth of tongue. To these
and Other Shivers do not beat your rattle drum.

A cobra lurking watches, slides through
saffron blades like shotguns, spikes and cones.
Save…rest easy now…the warlord’s flail is gone.
The cobra watches. A gleam is spun. The bolt
whips the lock and shuts the haunted stone.
A cloud-gurgle shawl veers on the horizon,
a name revealed in loss. And dead, alive, alone.