But let me tell you about its landscape. Small, hot, wooden, and from above no one will hear you murmur let me out. Out of the darkness nothingâ€™s delivered. Still,
you beg it to the brass of the coffinâ€™s creak hinge while satin grows stench and your death dress rots away. You are livid and left alone. The red jasper chaplet in your hand inclines to the pretense
of prayer. You are appalled, shrouded, sutured shut. They did not put the pillow in between your knees. And your lipstickâ€™s smeared. Once upon, you wished for a thousand infinities.
Finally arrived, nothing can be more broken, nothing can be more than dead. A devilwood tree hones toward the uncarved side of your stone. But this, of course, is not the end.