Split infinitive, the cleaver cannot leave a mark;
Whither here or there, I can
Say nothing of it save that in such spaces weightlessness demands
Safe passage through the night, and dawn, the every morn as sparks
In the extremities reveal mere likenesses of divinity, an excess so easily payed
Out as if ‘twere planned or ready bought, a largesse in signs
And light diffused. Humanity’s the excuse, the very line
Drawn in sands that separate here from there as if in an arcade
Where emotion speaks for intelligence and former lovers find a place
To hide within the withered phallus, the wilted orchid for just a little while.
Who will look upon obscenity as a mask of travesty whose caustic smile
Cannot pass the lips nor wisdoms register results within the mind? Efface
From memory the protocols of inertia in the game and such a stench is discerned
That cannot in the end be seen where more than innocence is burned.