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Stirring beyond an endless gulf of apprehension / Bent into the lurid autopsy of a mirror / Pupils dilate, malign and unfamiliar / As an arrangement of flies on a vacant windowsill

Lips dripping with bile and saliva / Hands that burrow, burrow through organ and tumor

Our bodies like a crust of roaches / Clot the earth’s folds, rustling and filthy in this slowly-filling well of depravation / For the love of god, will you not lower me the rope?

Am I throat or the hands at the garrote? / A cyclic sacrament /

Rejoice in the blessings of misery and death

Are we not lain under the hill of Prometheus? / Fallen upon the

dagger, “thy handle turn toward my hand?”

The scar that precedes the falling of the blow / The open grave which prefigures every birth / I am the hand that wounds, I am the arch tower of guts and the arrow buried forever in its breast.