crisps rot, the dead beast bristles once again, merely
a hiccup in the infinite winter of his non-existence?,
perhaps, where is any point the center, whose circle is
everywhere?, it is the mind creates the finite (oh is it?),
solely singular for the singleness, the self who would for
others do but this, is dipped in frozen swamp, staked out
to wait the dawn (it's going to be a long night!), why not
shoot the elves and eat the buggers raw?, cold rock in its
mind, the yard a frozen crust of pie, blossom as zero left
to burn, camilla petals curling into ripe oblivion, locks
rot in fallen fruit, we are gas at core, in our lively corpse,
or nothing if not noxious fumes and wayward eye, a cave
of echoes, friendships, loves, whatever was begotten,
lost, a coma at the center of the earth, this its silent sign.
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