This hole is perfect
because you are in It

Don’t even try to get out

This is the perfect shape of you
Crushed to atomic
Compounded to compost
To a mad misshapen thing

Beyond redemption or repair.

The seed song of the new
Begins as a lost cry that falls on a heart without ears.

Layers of bodies deep
Held urgently trembling in the smothering womb
of the
moistened dark.