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.