Now the Slow Blood

Slow the voice goes slower.

Slow the slow rain down.

Slow the narrow fellow in the grass stiffens.

Now the slow blood stirs.

Slow the voice goes slower:

Soft lead, soft enough to eat.

We dine on soft lead with lampreys.

Slow the voice goes down to harden.

Slow the silt reaches the bottom,

And Davy Jones eats

His slow meal of rubber and clay.

Slow the slow rain down can rain.

Slow the dead is dead.

Slow the light, light.

Slow the spirit is a bone,

Toy from a child’s coffin.