The arc of the pit,

the love affair of groin and arm, supplanted in the brain

with a treatise on nibbling and lingering in air.

The dry substance of the Fall distilled as dust and residue and slanting sun.

The world gone away swallowed in the dragons of the underworld.

The horned ones gone with love of Milton to the brink to look in upon the river Styx and her retinue of pallid murderers.

The drowned bog babies and the effeminate articulated skeletons with lacy covers and boudoir blooms of blood, sanctified by the pail of still births, hair and blood.

If you read the future here, no, the storm, the mother and her hissing sailor boy, the man who hears the sirens of the far shore.

Tallies of descent.  Everybody suffers sometimes for lack of a better word:  abandoned, tricked, caught up in the politics of the body.

That the great night of the sky looks down in wonder or that we look up with our offering fires is but the scene set by Hannibal for his mighty army to be fed and to conquer.

That the slim poet follows along with the painter and the fool is but the wry simulation of wheat blowing in the field, smoke rising in billow or even the little twist of candle heat snuffed with its warm wax malleable.

The need to call on other worlds is the obvious admission that we fall short before the beautiful and brutal faces of this landing and the scattering of innocents.

Love me a while.

Dance with the rectitude of forgiveness. 

Line up our toys.  Lift the veil.

Endeared, endangered on the brink of flights and descents.