I spooned the chicken of Hell in a sauce of rich yellow brimstone. The valley boys with me tasting it, croaked to white Jesus. I find myself in the earth. She is just deep enough to be suckling the stream when she drinks from it. North, the heaped districts, and south there'd be at least a Pharaoh's destruction of water suspended above me in this chthonic section.
Seeds fall in here from the poise of ploughland, grass land.
I could be easily foreclosed to a motionless size in the ruins of gloss. The old dead, though, are absorbed, becoming strata. The crystals, too, of glaze or matt, who have not much say in a slump seem coolly balanced toward me. At this depth among roots I thank God's own sacrifice that I am not here with seeds and a weighty request from the upper fields, my own words constrained with a cord. Babel in orbit maps the hasty parks, missile and daisy scorn the steady husbands and my countrymen mix green with foreign fruit.