You walk past door by door by door. Each door is the same.
Light slides from faceted glass knobs like detergent on black water.
You think: black water.
Inside you a spindle spoked with splinters of grief is wound by hempen
cord.
It tightens with each thought. Behind each door are hives of children.
You breathe: I am this, but I am not here.
When the ceiling splits, no shaft of light appears. The new sky hisses
and spits
a lolling tongue. The cord breaks and each door opens.
You watch: the child has a monstrance face.
Out of the mouths of babes comes propolis. You are encased.
==============================================================================
The information contained in this email and any attachment is confidential and
may contain legally privileged or copyright material. It is intended only for
the use of the addressee(s). If you are not the intended recipient of this
email, you are not permitted to disseminate, distribute or copy this email or
any attachments. If you have received this message in error, please notify the
sender immediately and delete this email from your system. The ABC does not
represent or warrant that this transmission is secure or virus free. Before
opening any attachment you should check for viruses. The ABC's liability is
limited to resupplying any email and attachments
==============================================================================
|