Ram Mesa, butting against heroic piles of lixiviated grammars, apocalyptic spoils, here there are only victims, hunter and prey drained and buried by the same legislation, whose quill pens the monstrous myth of bodies surgically opened by septic claws, falling to the foot of a tree where a woman, pregnant from flight in an eagle's arms, gives birth to a dream of a human figure in the white skin of a radiation suit.


Swooping down from Edo to Snowdon, banking over uranium mill's spewing loot, a Black Eagle, weaned in the Tree of Life,
clutches an open wound in his chest.