By Brakhage  Hollowed, the body upon a table; no verbs for the
inanimate, a cicada shell.  And men in long coats have removed
them; peeled flesh - skull over face - sawn through bone
cracking walnuts for the meat inside;  each soft and hidden part
apprised; the inside of your breast, the open boat of your body
sprayed clean of gristle; blood pooling, numbered.  Those sullen
limbs have lost integrity to knife, hose,  But who else holds
the bodies of the dead; thumbs the clayed flesh of your father;
that last and longest intimacy?  No better lover has had such
indifferent hands.  It demands only, the act of seeing with
one's eyes.