We hold breath, a collusion of the living, in the shadow-glow that opens our lenses - divine incest in graveyards. Your tesseract begins to flash with insights that we already knew, of cauldrons and merely human scandal. Swans sing unfinished. I am afraid when they call from across the table, I fear the pen-knife chiaroscuro of longing that colors all our pupils with devil's food and the best mead in miles and worlds that has been dead for years and tastes of all the living in darkened light that we want to think we do, but our breath catches where our spheres dare overlap. Our home is transformed to the painting, even while we're somewhat in it, we sound with joy for fear and the dolor of mirth. I miss you, green greys, and need you to have died to show me this panacea. Catch me when I'm born, dinner guests. I'll be on that side of the gateway before too many more spoke-days have passed us hungry.