...of myriad small things/this time
through the mirage of you (when hearsay
becomes capable of dissipating blistered seconds
rising from the road in blind idiot wisps of naivete)
quickened to savour/past the rhetoric of
The West and nihilism's corrosive ruins/to bomb
loaded cadavers embedded in the center that
justifed falling from the half-way mark of grace
to drink the boredom of gods forging
the distance of revision/created to still
blasphemy and a fair amount of pain
curling its speckled wings to shield their
precious whores from the net of tomorrow raining
whys from the depths of space