Cruor of Aphrodite. S.A. labs.
+++++++Dreams of motility. The bridegroom wakes
+++++++and then the bride. Bound overhead from LAX
screaming through the republic’s outworn hubs,

the redeye loses height at 7:03
+++++++for Pelham (where “sainted Anne Hutchinson”
+++++++lived on the marsh and died of Indians)
and the long turn toward LaGuardia.

Morning comes up, a bickering of sparrows
+++++++in the bare ivy runners and a whiff
+++++++of kerosene blown from the east. And if
the winter drives into them, croup and claws,

where shall they find their warmth? John Winthrop said,
+++++++when Mistress Hutchinson miscarried, that
+++++++the botched fetus brought too early to light
“was twenty-seven several lumps of man’s seed

without mixture of anything from the woman,”
+++++++by which he meant the monster of her body
+++++++proceeded from her mind’s monstrosity,
to think Christ’s righteousness should not find in

her something of an answering righteousness,
+++++++amid the high percent of primitive
+++++++forms in imagination. So forgive
them if their faith should laugh outright at this,

an angel hammered in titanium
+++++++which slams down and rolls shuddering to a halt,
+++++++glinting in clotted light. They cannot salt
this witching cloak of ice. O kingdom come.