The most nascent edge
That juts into sound-space
And mind-space and whole
Elongates
Lengthens
Stretches
Until the rope of the world
The chordate monstrous
Ties itself in knots
Its spine a pretty conglomerate of
Blank bones
And unwritten bombs
And vertebrae breaching and reverberating
Backwards
Backwards and then
And the people of last century with their
Token shields, fair-weather faces
Scream in delight and horror and lust
A spiny impudent wretch in the air
Leeching the colour from the world
Only those already gone will know what we did
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