84. blended, pointed, arches, arthur

the first thing mother gish thinks

when the world starts in-collapsing

is to head for sanctuary

and rejoice an anchovy

it’s an ancient artifice

practiced by the goblet-likes

who live high up in the mountains

of bulgaria or afghanistan

it doesn’t matter which, they’re tiny,

no-one, either place, would find ‘em —

it’s the start of a procession,

the nightly line-up of the louses

louses aren’t exactly insects,

they eat your skin, they’re arachnids,

these ones, though, have moved on,

they get their food from farming moss

they occupy a diocese

in the space between the leaves —

this group (the goblet clan),

worship a god named blue-faced sam

blue-faced sam, a spreading gem,

once a day collapses in —

this is when the louses sing,

and rejoice their anchovy

the anchovy (a silverfish)

is found among the rocks and sticks,

this they hoist up on an altar

(made of gold, one millimeter)

louses aren’t ill-intentioned,

and no-one hates a silverfish,

so instead of spilling blood,

they rejoice to boost it up

with the ceremony all completed,

the anchovy goes back to leafing,

and with any luck at all,

blue-faced sam will re-appear

the goblet-likes return to, then,

building houses in the sand,

straightening the lines of rocks,

and farming for their bits of moss

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