Pristine

Each day a stream of new lost souls succeeds the last. I number the innumerable hosts in triplicate. My office door should read: “Through me the road unto a town of ghosts; through me the way to join an endless war; through me a path among the Lost Almosts: Abandon hope, all ye who enter

I picture you when aura first ignites: an aspen leaf trembling in calm. The teacher crackles. The chalk turns green. Your classmates, counterclockwise, back away. Then a sharp cry!— as in grief or joy. (Who screamed through your mouth’s big O?) Your head jerks back for a kiss. What black! Or have you just gone

Its ear attunes homage to those wings
that would entice a consort’s tailored song.