You woke in a morass of intricate Bernini curves –
a vast Baroque amalgam of discarded impulses –
the sort of thing Teresa would have been had she
not ever been to mass – orgasmically devoid
of Christianity – alloyed with unrepentance –
suffering the sentence of a judgment carried out
by something other than divinity. You seem to have
become, or ended up, another version of exactlywhat you’d been – a random dollop of infinity.