Three zombies–fresh from the soil and wearing

lipsticks of tsetse flies–form a triangle

when they sit with their backs to each other. Place a pitcher

of blood within this space and it is refrigeration.

One zombie cannot hatch an egg

no matter how long it nests in the intestines

of newly gutted cats. An estranged wife,

drunk on bullet holes, has been known to satisfy

several zombies and set the husband free.

The living heart must answer to the undead mouth.

Television snow shares the same sound

as a zombie scuffle for bones and half-digested nachos.

In the air, smog from synthetic brain factories

as two zombies–mirror images of Christ–

sink their teeth in the lifeless body

by the dumpster and begin to call forth Lazarus.
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