there's an irresponsiveness

that gets turned on at

first black.

still the features that show

up are distinct.

an entire entity leans in.

withdrawing the ashen bathwater

of Shiva...who knows when

to slather it on.

though he's cleanly extracted.

draining the sounds contained in

broken water.

post, post, post scriptum...

Escher etchings of a raven

motioning its only pair of wings.

turned out at last black.

feral dichotomies

have already wolfed

down the pre-bitten

hand.

burping unapologetically.

there are Table Manners

too impeccable.

a sign of appreciation in any

culture of bad blood.

made good.

there's an emphasis on

hands melting like the

wax of unlit candles.

reaching out.

the stifled coughs of a

pew's darkness  can be

heard, along with the

smell of freshly baked

bread.

Rembrandt works his way

through a crowd, to where

icons live in paint.

with no need of restoration.

having  been forced

to repeat Ourself--

Mother dearest was brought

back to life by something

of spring.

as one of her own slipped

out of the door.

she tried to bring

her family together.

noticing verdant pinches

crop up.

hell had its fury.

when stated, bold-faced:

I don't understand You.

if only pauses could give

what they take.