The Coroner's Garage Sale
Last night, I dreamed of Saint Francis
drinking red wine from a human skull.
We sat at Marty’s, under a meat hook,
Francis in his worn-out suit
and belt made of a heart surrounded
by nipples and noses. What’s the point,
the bartender cried, pointing
at the art installation—a decapitated
carcass with no arms, hanging
upside down. Love, Francis answered,
fondling its genitalia. The body radiated
a cold and luxurious light, bright enough
to read by. It was Saturday night,
the usual crowd: policemen, soldiers,
undertakers, medics, and dwarves.
Everyone had a plate of nachos
and a frothy green zucchini drink.
Francis sighed. A lover abandoned Venus
at the morgue. I found her in a drawer.