anything    that       is,
must   bear light —

transitory, translucent: perhaps, winged
  and conscious of space, mindful of turn,
sizing down height. vertigo of all that,
   shining no ambivalence.

this   is the way my world will end:

the room still reeks of sour mash —
   Pablo the dog, oblivious, marble-eyed,
yet some pitch-black hound's awakening
   from steely sleep.   the pages will
fall flat on the doorstep unannounced—

   it is difficult to   imagine angels.
  it is difficult to    deal God's infinities.
    they are each to their own
           faults.
  heaven is    meant to scar. still drunk
     in fearfully fretting butterflies
     tilted in slaughterhouses   screaming
       ****** against the crowd.

    there will be no falsetto claim to
  sovereign —    a drop D, e minor chord
      on the guitar, strumming, swimmingly
  discolored    and only resounding.