A Mass of Contradictions
Surfacing, like an eel in the web of it's tail,
strangled, baked in nitrogen with brains as walls
as conquerable as glass,
their fate lies doormant
from wet crosses;
drowning arcs
taking their two hands to procreate
without sin, without stature, without a chest of pins
to scratch at the orbiting holes,
the lack of fruit for uniform
and the bite banished in the mask of a garden
revered with abstinence,
choking knowledge and shrugging, tasting corpses
like church mice: a pest, a pet
pending,
a test in the experiment
or in the ending?
