These pictures what do they tell
the day is a widow the morning an open grave
it's not my hand that strikes them down

while I eat their heads grow thinner
while I sleep they murder in their dreams
they swim before me like fish in a bowl
is the body really this translucent

a disconsolate woman clings to her child
small and shrunken as a fly
when I've had my fill I rise from the table
she follows me from room to room with open eyes