Hell is empty. O that has come to pass
which the cut Alexandrian foresaw,
and Hell is empty.
Lightning fell silent where the Devil knelt
and over the whole grave space hath settled awe
in a full death of guilt.
The tinchel closes. Terror, & plunging, swipes.
I lay my ears back. I am about to die.
My cleft feet drum.
Fierce, the two-footers club. My green world pipes
a finish—for us all, my love, not some.
Crumpling, I—why,—
So in his crystal ball them two he weighs,
solidly, dreaming of his sleepy son,
ah him, and his new wife.
What roar solved once the dilemma of the Ancient of Days,
what sigh borrowed His mercy?—Who may, if
we are all the same, make one.
