Council.

A possum scratches on my windows
Likely eyeing himself
Some new phantom sizing up
Pulling up the concrete carpet and
Scattering the dirt like tea leaves and splinters
And bark-bound clouds
And homeless Irishmen
Shrouds and coffins and mockingbirds
A colder
Bluer winter
Than I might have known

An hour might do
An hour might do
How long will it take to reach the bottom?
Will this golem let me down?
And the hand around my neck
That spits fire from its mouth
And thinks in tongues
And falls in tons of bricks
While the flesh aggregates
And crawls into the jungle
And crawls into my windpipe
And speaks for me
Hovering in horror
Speaking platitudes in sign
And slowly tightening a dexterous finger
Around my Adam's apple
If the golem would let me down
Just to sink back into dust
If the flesh might fall apart
Just to rot
As old flesh must
We might find ourselves in iron
Or a giant tortoise shell
While tree frogs talk to
Spitting bugs
And conspire against the whims of man