and there in your wake lie the doors
closing in the face of the face of thing
just around the corner peddling winged
greased monkey ratchet steward
this pale element of fig stew wretchedness
this sorry excuse of humanity is the barest
extreme possible, the wildest reach of distant
thought could see beneath its skin
radiant and alive it was
gleamed up and ready for the cycle to flare up
and explode into smithereens
Nicholas Alexander's Poetry