A Temporary Carnage

There is a sibilance between wind chimes -
A path for serpents through sharp
Prairie grass and down the runnels
Of martyred remains. Cinder slag
Left by the lions in the field,
Their many mauled femurs yawning
With the pleasure of being bodiless.

I am intimate with the discarnate,
Those unreflective bits of rust
Which burst flavorful on the tongue,
Like broken plates and red blooded
Fireworks.

Just a rogue coin clanging in the wash,
Soon to be removed.