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In the eternity required of dirt to ruin the dead to a dark that will erode
light (the sediment of which is the stuff birth’s the spoil of), with death
those deathless are born into it, for these embryos, by sex, swell into
leaves of death—black, not green in this promiscuous emptiness.
immortality is the time it takes to come to life & those who arrive will never leave
now that they're to die, for to come to life is like nothing else—it is not even like
life itself
In the nusquam it is ubique opening the dust: to die from death
this love like the life of grasshoppers; its spoil, a constellation of stars
that ruin the withdrawn; its embryo, their havoc at death whose remains
may close into the heartfelt; its usefulness to open waste & make
the charitable everywhere, for nowhere is the lack of it, nowhere
is eternal dark.
