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.
It was only that we hadn't learned-- but back then the summer lasted and we sprawled late nights as concrete heat leeched blood from our veins in a limb-tangled fraternity behind the school
I no longer visualize an ending. Ever since that time when They came running, laughing musically Shooting the luminous champion with one small shining spar, and then Turning themselves away. The brightest one fell.