Lewis Powell on the Gallows

What, in the end, were we thinking? The radiators hiss kicking in and something inside me near the shoulder buckles then straightens, possibly Lewis Powell on the gallows, by all acounts stoic to the end. Pushing aside so much in order to make room to sleep, or try to sleep, or pretend to sleep. In this story I chase a witch into the floorboards and beyond into mossy earth, both of us dissolving like salt in dark waters that birth no light (as if only without us is a prism prismatic). It's not a secret but on the other hand one does love to have a secret doesn't one. Windows through which hope passes, sunlight filtering through the village, pies cooling on windowsills, atomic bombs as yet unimaginable. Somebody wants to argue about God again but for once it won't be with me. Lemon-scented letters arriving almost every day now, the return address hard to make out but a little clearer each time. She kisses me jacking me off, a sweetness - something hidden coming to light - the hitch in her breath while my back arches more precious than fire. Quartz was a trap, I see it now. At night I stand beneath the stars and rehearse an old prayer, the one you taught me lifetimes ago. Between crucifixions, shall we begin?