The Gods - Los Dioses
The gods go moving through trampled things, lifting
the hems of their robes with a look of disgust.
Through rotting cats, hatching larvae and accordions,
feeling the wetness of putrid rags, time's
vomit,
under their sandals.
In their denuded sky they dwell no more, thrown out
beside themselves with pain, a troubled dream,
they walk along wounded by nightmares and slime,
stopping
to recount their dead, the clouds face-down,
the broken-tongued dogs,
to gaze enviously into the pit
where shrieking rats on their hind legs
fight over scraps of flags.
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