the loosed hounds coursed inward to the zero
forest, zero portrait, sun-hot zephyr,
and were gone. The smell was gone, the format.
The neatly woven strands, the imagined
half-living quantum cat, had lost their pulse.
Now what bread can be brought to the table?
Out of the gross data, what fandango
will thirst irritate to consciousness of light?
There is no void less ravening than the sea.
Who sits there? What taste in the mouth of the god?
Copyright © 1996
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Path of Least Resistance
Cover of Episode 8