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Like every hell, extinguishing sin. My mouth pale with devotion, and silent with burning. What will the angels, blonde and pouting, let us take from this union, unholy as the ecstatic's dream? It is a dark and unfamiliar thing, this flawed majesty of ecstasy and suffering. Then, as it always was, the shine of wheat fields in November outside the motel room window, and every morning the bossa nova of the 6:45 train. And you, forever with a carnival tune on your lips and fire on your tongue.
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