We are night-hungry and fame-drunk. We beg

for a wave of the future.

A star-covered dome,

a dark flight of stairs. We are wet

rows of sequins,

a silver disc. Our bodies slick

with afterbirth. The light

narrows. There — is the barking of dogs.

A shot — a firework. A cherry-trimmed wound.

And then there is life —

So horrible. So pearlescent and scared.

A crocodile, sent by God.

We are no longer alone.

We raise our hand to the door.

In the star-covered dome,

On the dark flight of stairs,

There is rejoicing — rejoicing.

We do not yet know.

This is the way. It is red,

and wondrous.