White Words

Life grows on death.
You know that smell.
Those aren’t the scents
Of the dead flesh,

Those are the stinks
Of the fresh lives
Come to the corpse
To feed on it.

If you steer clear,
It’s since those lives
Could make you sick.
More lives fly in

For whom it’s food.
Watch charmed black birds
Drape all they eat
And leave white words.