The infernal wish to be lifted up up and into the land of the living
this time to be good, to take the longer view this time and not a single tire iron to a single skull to lay, to live in peace, all martial airs dispelled, uncoveting
the infernal wish for everything wished for to hurry and come before all hell breaks loose,
as if a single pinprick swift delivery into personal release from wishing were all the world required to save it
the infernal wait for the angelic laughter succeeding this plea to die down.
Devout before the stations of remembered glances,
silent the prayers for kisses to make flesh the unspoken
the blazing banks of penny candles blackening the feet of plaster saints.
A description of the stations on the journey out of
probably I take the long way round
probably the border is two miles to the east while I go west twelve thousand miles,
they'll say, But you could have just walked out, you could have done it in your sleep.