Hyphen

Some supplicate the cobra bite,
the dust of thirst,
or the lion-paw,
that stop the gathering of the body
into the army
of its own kingdom.

Some find in death a fine prayer,
excellent of pain,
the lion's head full of bees,
the bone-white of the empty temple,
the grim hiss of expiration,
the equal height of everything
under the scimitar.

Others walk the stepping-stone
of what is release,
what is breaching joy,
endless dawn.

Others, the hypnosis
of a thousand turns of carving-knife
in the white walls of the palace

as the river runs through its fat-homed bank,
by rude ravens,
in the buzz of hungry dragonflies.