Refuge Field

You have installed a voice that can soothe you:agents of the eaten flesh, every body a cocoon of change— Puparium. The garden a birthing house,sarcophagidae— And green was so dark in the night-garden, in the garden's gourd of air— green's epitome of green's peace, the beautiful inhuman leg-music, crickets' thrum— a pulse to build their houses by, each successive molt a tent of skin in which skin can grow, the metallic sheen of their blue backs as they hatch out, winged and mouthed— Like in a charnel ground, you sit and see. In one of the Eight Great Cemeteries, you sit and see— How the skull-grounds are ringed by flame, how they spread out under a diamond tent, how the adepts pupate among bones— saying I who fear dying, I who fear being dead— Refuge field. See it now. That assembly of sages you would have yourself build, to hear the lineage from mouth to ear, encounter the truth- chain— Saying,Soft eaters, someone's children, who gives them refuge from want— Cynomyopsis Cadavarena. On every tongue they feed.