Once,
when the gray-green ellipsis peeled away from under his lids,
like the skin of the hovel on Edna Street,
held in disregard,
I realized what it is to be wicked.
In the cavities that remained
I arranged a sundry of peuce-hued ills,
their putrescence seeping between his lashes and forming a
bruised puddle over the swells of his cheeks.
I moved back a step to covet the creation,
a**embled in my bouts of conscience;
breathing in feeble rasps,
each lily-laden sigh contorted the flesh
of my nose until the shape
lost all semblance of lucidity.