With five fingers to each and ivy burns,
the ether breaks in rivers and the arsenic
snowflakes burn black on the stevedore’s
tongue; loveless, pulpy, blood pumped
in dank thickets of grown forestry, acres
with hanged man shaking arrhythmically
and giving their final salute. And the truest
one of all is the first to die last; to leak in his
boots for having ever told the truth, forever
having wasted himself in “why”, for buried
up to his mouth in gaslit sighs. The flowers
which rot under his tongue are unrequited,
deranged pianist palsies, licks of a tongue,
dying as a dog. This, man, is the victory,
the mouth stuffed with eyeless orchids
and the mere peace of his fellows: this
is the victory of the chilling ministry.