Engulfed in the peace like a dime between a thumb
and drop of blood... a forlorn noose, 'round the neck
of a Christmas goose.... and a pantheon of dull sparks
barking at the nails in my palm.
How quiet it all seems
now that our rivals, love our rivalry.
How the bridges burn.
As the Netherworld chums
the  River Styx
for a shark's
black pearl.

Let us come to a sharp place
on a flatline. Arrive adjacent to the waters
of our turbulent pond.
There, we must go, where the withering
is more vast
and the hours sour
the bloom
of our dignity... to better capture
the wave of our undone
tired light... lurching through the trauma
of our vigorous demise.