Language Game

mouthfuls of dust
our bodies
of work
our magnum opus
shot in the dark

we can see the tops
of what were mountains
good enough
before cracked lips
seal around our necks

we hunt by the scent
trailing from imprints
in the bedrock
deep enough to swim
in, but emptiness

is easily occupied
we would prefer our busy
heads not be mounted
on a huntsman's walls
but flowing like rivulets

down the highest
ground, transfusing
back into the earth
already out of ideas
blanketing paralyzed

offerings
curled up like ants
burnt by magnifying
eyes that flare
like impassive suns

mannequins'
hides draped over glass
cloth and polyester resin
molds, no such luxury
as being lyophilized