Rhythm precedes it all.
The solemn purl of water heading home.
The thrum rattle of thunder cascading
down the manifest plain.
A liminal narrative
our ears breathe
in the night.

The sepulchral rhythm of the streets,
blood roused.
What I mean is words do not matter
as the body is dragged or not dragged
through the bawdy horde.
The foot camber and vengeant carnal prayer
is not yours or mine or theirs.
We share it, this fire lust,
this primordal chant:

the loathsome somatic hymn
of those dancing dead.