To That One Figure In Bruegel Ridden By the Fetus of Glory

We are much improved       by small bruises  
though nothing’s changed you so much 
as the fact that you can’t be helped 
the tongues arrive above you    each as rich 
and plump as a gland        each tongue returning  
its lips unused         each tongue a zeppelin 
a splinter bursts one       it smears away across the sky  
ridden by a fetus       that has blown 
its own bladder out     of its urethra using it 
as a sail playing it     like lowland pipes 
celebrating itself as a penny robot 
and a freak for sauce      out of its sizelessass  
the lighthouse bulbs of the world       fall as eggs

Your body is the luggage for your disaster  
that in the branches of your machinedom 
your body is a mobile tree of levers   used for filling  
holes and holding       the piles of the cooked 
your body is for the hauling of itself      past fire where its hair would wick 
for the hoisting of itself      from the flumes
of the deluge      and the piling of its limbs in beds  
the light rests        in the bridge footing 
it shines in your basket     this is the spring 
in all its clatter and art      and if instead of weathervanes  
there are chandeliers mounted on the barns 
each bouquet of light salutes       our feasting  
in the wilderness     and not 
your lent       and loss