Spring is a sort of wishful thinking / a door half-open, unable to decide.
An infant bursting into white light wails. Shattering, the sound wave washes outward and is lost in the general background hum. A tired mother clings to the echo.
This is a glum poem, so I'm including a baby sloth. I think we need not fear to sin, for sin has grown less deadly. Take avarice. The bankers have, and yet it seems that they will own the world and more.
A beated I.P., Deus Ex Machina - it's been percolating for days, and finally emerged. Orestes, though a matricide, was saved from the Furies when Athena stepped out of a machine to absolve him. Hippolytus the pure was not spared, but a dragon- chariot was sent for Medea who murdered her children.