a hole in the night by David McLean they made a hole in the night punctured by the loveless structure erected in the heart of the city, in the center of absence where death walks, dressing itself well in selves in this heaven, bodies full of flesh and abjection, bowing down to worship nothing, they [...]

the birds do not sing of death by David McLean the birds sing to me of the hill sloping down below the window, and they know cats are waiting so they are thankful for my gaoler’s perversity; but they do not sing to me of death, and do not know where the dead are, they [...]