Issue 169, Spring 2004
The underworld the bright brochures have shown
declines our courtesy. The rare albino fish
wait in the falls, and the blind salamanders,
ignoring camera flashes, sulk in cracks.
Even the bats, aloof as specks of mold
on Adam’s half-cleaned torso, wake no fears.
High ground, we know, is less than promised—flawed
as a poorly buttressed church whose steeple
we’ve inhabited for years without angelic
sightings. Perhaps the other angels moved
down here as well. It’s best, at least, to know
the holes our faith must skirt or be led into.