Bat-handed, two-pronged digits,
your fingers are the eyes
inside the wood. As much Eloi as Morlock.
At the sphinx’s paw, think of the bright forest in the back
of my skull: echo
of an edible chamber gate;
for leisurely feeding, larvae-rich. Lemur me;
murmur eel. Ease me up, little one. Sing Liliata
rutilantium to Eve’s brood, to too many fire-folk
in the branches.
Would be too breezy to bring the end of days into
the year 802,701, past the green porcelain dome, when fire
trucks will long have been forgotten,
when an emergency will not die into this fiery wake
until there’s not a human thing to see.
Little old aye-aye, why did I glimpse ancient industry—
broken from a volcanic egg?
My alter argos, my dwarf Ophelian
that the ugly homunculi feed on:
Could you really have come up
holy fool—which is to say,
was your shadow of light
this fragile, this tinderbox-