Corporeal is our script, we dead
Whose codexes confound you. A slash

To phase the moon, a slash to drive an ibex
Up a self-same alpine stone.
                                              Micro-ed

& macro-ed. Snakehead or sperm? Moon or ovum?
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,

Password Protected. Strings of a lyre the dead can strum
In glossological silence.
                                      Incise the slag,

Cut deeper & the gods spew out, commingling
With fist & stylus, stone to stone in its season—

Marrow to marrow, groove & puncture, we factor time:

Red letter dates—all rebus & cipher. The detail work’s
Promethean.
                     We cleave the graven firmament.

   Contributor’s notes

   Introduction
   Something of Us to Prove Our Afterlife: Notes on “Ochre”
   Table of Contents
   Acknowledgements

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