Falling, falling, falling from such great distance.  Shrouded
in a layer of dense white cloud.  From some sidereal desert
falling.  Falling in folded wings of snow, the night plants a
moistened kiss on the window, awakening toxic fragrances
of hot house blooms.  Along the inner sill, bright,
conspicuously displayed reproductive organs of jasmine
and gardenia are the sweetest offerings.  To hunger after
forgetfulness.  In the deep, dark center lies the succulent
fruit.
 In the deep, dark center, what bed of litanies
unfolds before the night?  The hands of what Perseus
remove the chains, opening penetrations into a landscape
of supplicating flesh?  What prayer, whispered to invoke
oblivion, rises like a bird from the heart?
 

©1999, from LOST CEILINGS (Telephone Books)