I write this poem for survival,
flinging upwards the grappling hook
as the ground gives under me: I still hope
for a spectacular, minute-to-midnight arrival
at the gates of bliss. Calm detachment is vital,
I've heard, if you want to get through intact.
That's why my reasoning floats in a white tunic
above my shoulder; for luck I've named him Virgil.
The ferocity of our attackers frightened me
as we both peered back at the hellhounds below us.
"I think it's the optimism they found offensive,"
laughs Virgil with the pastoral charm of a wise peasant—
his look assuring me we'd once again be stretching our toes
on the pleasant shorelines of enlightenment.
