dwarfed and gnarled hunchbacks—
but often hell reels at the sight

of crisp dinner jackets, David Niven moustaches,
bows from the waist, overtipping the ferryman.

Sometimes hell listens too hard for wails and grinding
teeth—but we are only static, inscrutable music,

voices no face could ever match.
Hell can't wrap its mind around these Noel

Cowards, two-abreast, After-you-
my-dear-Alphonsing all the way. Sometimes

hell abhors the way it clings to tradition,
the pomp and circumstantial evidence

of our falls—and sometimes hell wants us
to imagine it as real, all any lover could ask,

the simple respect of knowing when to burn.