Hell moves not
a thing of panicked seeds
a miniscule harshness
for marigold buds that only glance in their calm, and need not
speak the walls

It is of towers
A sleepy screen that talks
a depressing tone of obliqueness
only because behind it the breath is a senseless, a meaningless
hour radiating,

A heaven of empty
bottles, clearly full.
One expects that the bottles must retreat
down from one step to the next. Fearing
a parked stance

and a swing still, flesh
must break his day, and stop.
The intense window
denies his stale roof. Light blows past him.
The fist appears

--Khristina Scruggs