Text of the Poem
May breath for a dead moment cease as jerking
head upward you hear as if in slow motion floor
collapse evenly upon floor as one hundred and ten
floors descend upon you.
May what you have made descend upon you. 5
May the listening ears of your victims their
enter you, and eat like acid
the bubble of rectitude that allowed you
May their breath now, in eternity, be your
Now, as you wished, you cannot for us
not be. May this be your single profit.
Of your rectitude at last disenthralled, you
seek the dead. Each time you enter them
they spit you out. The dead find you are not
Out of the great secret of morals, the imagination
the skin of another, what I have made is a curse.