Pulses pounding, lungs collapse in sheets of sewer breath. Firing sweat stains steam saliva, seeds of sudden death. Seeping through the ventilator, up the fire escape. In a line, spirits whisper, "Season's right for rape." (I will think of England, of trees in summertime. Of leafy lanes, of daisy chains, of Grandad's rhubarb wine.) Run Christina, hide Christina, sneak inside this shoe. A pair of rancid rotten hands are wringing just for you. But android armies armed with H-bombs couldn't save you now. Best to just lie back and wait, and contemplate your vow. (I will think of England, preparing for this trial. I'll raise my veil, I'll bite my nails, I'll grimace when he smiles.) Shrivel up, shimmer, sliding, shooting, sinking to the ground. Seedy 3D Polaroids can twist it round and round. It twined, entwined in twilight tango turning in the fire. Pressing, pushing past the limit, expand and then expire. (I will think of England, of trees in summertime. Of leafy lanes, of daisy chains, of Grandad's rhubarb wine.) Peter puked, tore a curtain, dipped his eyes and cried. Pilate pondered on his pipe, politely turned aside. And at the door stood John the Baptist, head beneath one arm. Spitting oaths, splitting fingers, sounding the alarm