In the Belly of Hell

In the Belly of Hell

“The mountains cannot judge us when we lie.” — W. H. Auden “In Time of War”

Warm faces stream into the well of darkness.
She lights a candle as dusk breathes deep.
Her fruit has come to fruition in the cold
Dank moment where hatred still burns.

A poem dictates the next decade
Into which she elopes with madness.
Hearts of black villains scud her world,
Tearing her keening into shrill scrubs.

A basket of words for weaving in the cornfield
Where deplorable brambles fold and mold
On the slippery slope of mutated follies — 
Crooked pork stands disgruntled in shadows.

A dark stump eats at the gut of the lame.
The enemy of time goes limp waiting
In the insane crawl space of diverse skin.
Her mind goes to seed in the brain-dead winter.

Her feet move spring music straining to speak.
Her dream falls from the ink pool into blank verse.
A fish flops and springs off its slithering spawn
Where morning looms in from the horizon.

Walking in the dust she dictates the next poem
Intensity blocking the manners of evil wishers.
But the clocks still run and water still erodes.
The sinews of pink muscles decay in droves.

A warm face streams out of the well of darkness
Her candle has extinguished the force of swill.
The ill-gotten gain of the intruder will be spent
In the belly of Hell, as soon as she puts up the fire.