as sight lowers and lowers

its light, fathoming footfalls down--

cast and dangling.

the prey of a finely sliced

path, onsetting rigors of a hell.

leaves rustling like black moths in

the crosshairs of invisible fires.

frosted tree stumps with cauldron

bellies having and rehaving their full

of seasons.

the air smells like stars gone out, tormenting

personal astrologies--till unwritten.

it is there the forest tears at its growth to lose

selves already lost--proceeding always at the

end of the middle's beginning.

it is where Virgil is a step ahead of Dante, guide

in the flesh of the only orientation.