XV  THE DEVIL: THE MULTIPLYING ROOMS

It is hot. The night drops rain on us.
Yet the world's ablaze
with things unattained, unimagined, unresolved,
swirling in a summer storm.

We wander all the rooms, & each
leaves an imprint on us, & each
time another beckons.

The unborn, unconceived child
cries in a bolted, unreal room,
& the unborn child that we are
is pure thought, & wanders
in other distant rooms.

The clock stops. We do not wind it,
& float
on an ether of potentialities.

A salamander emerges from his pit
under the house, & slowly climbs
up the windowpane
with potential tongues of flame
lashing from all 4 paws.

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