the throes of pale descend;
a bone is wrought this the wire where blood is vine as fern-door tips
open, the solitary dove coos whose wish remains,
which house of worm witholds?
as the cove of ground breaks open love buds whose wish remains, which
whorl of tincture roams? restoring death to its
abode i as the stubbornness of
manhell climb out of nothing into
nothing serpent! sway us
into call, strum the wet wood into
storm smoke mother!