there are no similes for hell
or the mirage called this life
wishless as smoke obscures starlight
playing out our parts
sparks from a broken wheel caught
under vehicles in heavy traffic
likenesses
of tasks and days oozing, sucking, eating
even evil would be a boon
and stings hard as a scorpion's tail:
evolved but unconsoled
no sovereign there
where flames steal from wick to wick
but no myrmidons, either, to warm
white eggs or return your red nest
rather the trail dissolves
under the arch of your soles
a glitch threading vertebrae
through the eye of a kill screen
since how much faith can you surrender
given stories without hope
or happy endings?
further parables of the conjured city
this gateway, then that gateway
then another on
until the final threshold
to the imperial gates
messengers too, we are
changing residence—nothing as it seems
continually seems this way
distortions out loud dream
of this, feed on addictions
you close your eyes, a kiss,
then open them
word becomes flesh
but don't expect a savior
-- Ian Gwin is a poet, translator and musician. He researches and translates Baltic and Finnish literature, specializing in decadence, symbolism, and the fairy tale. His translation of Berlin, a book of short stories by the contemporary writer Andriss Kuprišs, will be published next year by Open Letter Press (2025).