there is no savage device worth witnessing
in the demon halls of perfect
human intellect.

what there is, sprig cherubim,
untold repermeant flotsam, a universe of oxidized
outdated computer chips dusted apart motherboards.
what there is, perfect dandelion,
tunnels of moles U can never eye-spy, wrinkles
belying windstorms in the mud rub where the water
basin used to be.
what there is, electric dustmite,
echelons of forgotten champions in the forever-sealed
victory halls of intered kingdoms, lips that penetrate
the mists in metroplitan alleys, questing
for an encounter.