There’s hardly a moment I am not slung up on the gallows.
It’s just as Dante said: Of myself and of my bones I build the wooden frame,
Of all my knotted guilt come stringing infinite the stanchions: closing in the verdict.
Within the dust the other I still stands, being that I am what I am among myself ensnared.
And eyes in glassy well peering back above the necks of better men and children
To me in strung upon the framed and fidgeting dais.
How I’ve wanted such attention, beneath a milky moon. And nothing but a
sift of dusty silence in my wake.
It is as Dante said
There is a haunting passage from “The Inferno” that keeps coming back to me. But why?
