This is not the skin
of teeth
or din of bells, frozen in account
the knick-knack tick of keen beetles
clinging to the husk of
unborn eyes

and
this can't be
the dread of dread
or night's opposable moon-
so clever in the labyrinth
Our random angels
swoon.

This
is not the frequency, or -
another hell, without
a mouth
or trip hatch, thick with gaping maw
yawning in the fiendish
sky

and this cannot be
the dread of dread
or night's recant of
afternoon-
so ever in the mist of dreams
Our handsome devils
croon.

this is not the preach and preen
of modern life or modesty
and's not the last word of it's kind
to crack the seedling of
the mind

and this
can ill afford a name
that can be writ
or made to
seem

and
never has it said Itself
and seldom
been a
thing*.