the bonds are all we have in the end,
prone to forget how empty is emptiness,
how silent is silence
tangle up in what you can
so that when the judgement comes
your train stretches to the far horizon:
hermit crabs and bad poets and nude
lawyers woven in it, a mighty haul,
all the mad frustration you provoked
in your infinitude, matchless in their
beauty, such that when the light hits
it will sing and stink with color
like an endless trellis of orchids.
