Slender frogs spring, weightless,
weaving through bog cotton.
Rows of cut turf monuments come to a sheer drop—
the bog hole: a cliff of richest fudge
feeding into a red wine gorge, thick with tannins.
Here, all pleasures compress: dull, heavy, glutting.
At this end of the field everything pulls
down with a gravity of its own, draws us
into sumptuous density.
Grant us release from temptation, we say,
burning another sod of ancient peat,
watching smoke calligraphy curl
dense apocalyptic language in the room,
consuming, even as we exhale.
We know not the day nor hour,
but the gorging age will pass.
Our heavy hands will sublimate, spectral fingers
rise, rearrange the carbon letters, re-spell
revelation from the hollow burning bell
As sure as every feast is followed by a fast
the heavens in the hells shall duly shine up-cast.