The Chorus laments:
As our life here had its long heroic period followed by a dark age and re-birth
as the Greeks of coy comparison, it remains
a cruel reminder sex is weirdly omnibus
vaulted tracks of fate and swamped foundation.
We suffer because we are here. Sex templed us. To suffer revolt
in one’s own then is irony heaped, unbearable.
So Colonid in a way, us reminded nature could con-
vene divine council, confirm the only inexorable God
one breathed or knew. Death is celluloid spectacle:
fires of wicker in midsummer. Only sex is real. No Kali of the calming grimace, no
envaginated warmth companioned with us, this
is wheel over wheel, priapus mobilé, symphony of cartilage cathartically
swelling and encounter’s quell in ecstasy
or shame, equally welcome, drownéd in endless pearl.
Such ordinary dins of small talk with cockeyed jocks
so frequently, so rapidly found
extraordinary ends
must prove
existing larger hedrons
amid
much stinging mist
of life unfaceted.
— Ryan Haas lives and works in St. Louis, Missouri.