Great Hall
DeWitt Brinson

A fir tree can grow wings, it won't matter whispers one guest to another. Cold is a certain discomfort, no one screams. The author flushes. The silence cretin. Where a guest exists, a ghost exists. The great hall.
Icarus flies closer to the sun. Someone zips up, builds another fire on the fire to keep the fire going. Bodies have bodies inside. Zipping up a fly closer to the sun. The pants protect delicate light from inquisitive eyes. The gray hole. Eye of the sky.
There are some images no one touches. The ghost exits.
I am my heir's thoughts.
The grateful or the great hell.

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