and I end the prose
we nail our feets
we nail our wrists
and quail at the crowds
at the promenade
but we will never kneel
insight/recognition is the Key

exodus en route

through the Park, along the Beach
a transgressive Mass armed
with a flock of bells and grey clouds in the skies
and waves in a mosh pit on/along the edges

we nail our feets
we nail our wrists
and we quail at the crowds
And I end the prose

lowered in God's pond
swollen body in the marsh
bitten by the Serpent
I end, the prose
on a Black Bed