we are born in the middle of it.
with our questions questing Anubian.
our redacted realities, roiling in the flume
of our heavy chimneys…
swept into voids with labels
that march into dim bleak, with dull bells
struck by lightning, coiled in implausible
hammers… made of last thoughts
and deep collisions.

our mission is agony abated.
should Winter have a star in its pantry
to nurse a dark horse
Then we have a reason
to gallop in the chasm
exuberantly
off course