Not plumes. Not plumes from the teapot’s throat. But force, unseen, the space
The years of my youth, my sensual life—how clearly I see their meaning now.
Me & the Devil are rivals for God’s affection.
Dangling his legs outside the plane in wind that seems about to whip him in half at the hips, but won’t, having split
Sin, thy name is this wait—this place— a long ways from Here to There, from where
