Beneath Beneath a red lightbulb innumerable doves swim as if in a cold, gold sun. Birth, creation, a ruinous origination. Decomposition settles in. Bibulous boozers scratch at beer, flick the air with brown fingers. Intemperate cuckolds. “Declare your bones,” they say in whispers thick as honey. Time is arrested as the production of long shadows hushes the brown room, but not the annelid which eats the dirt that falls from the shade like black snow.