I have found my figures,
love, and I am theirs
to do with as we will.
Oh they got sucked into the void
spaces of an infant skull
because a storm blew up in there
around a cataclysm: birth.
They fought as winged lions
until they fouled the waste
with carrion and living jaws
and almost died: their ghosts
still roar around on the air
above the desert floor
but leave objective room,
lamb, for your material:
love. Oh it is here
that I propose to build
it, the cathedral “Abattoir”:
it is a concrete fold, in plan,
with columned lions to mark
it, set in a desert storm.
Please be its visitor.