and crossing love’s gulf
into the abyss a protector
angel strove to see the
faint chaos from the air;
that is, from death’s other
side, and instead cursed
us with his harpist’s
strange melody—a mix of
escalating cubist hooting
with a chitin instrument
like a horn, though blown
with exhalations of a
psychical kind, and the
beatings of an
immeasurably large kettle
drum interspersed with
the sound of scraping—
some colossal metal thing
being pulled from another
Thanks for checking out my poem.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!
—Gabriel Muoio
$1.00
