Hard on its heels, heaven wears hell out.
The irises do their thing regardless:
Here-now they sway along the drive
Leads to the heiress’ house; the façade
Is made of lightning-rods; they form
An organ-shape; probably, were one
To investigate, it’s the spitting
Image of an x-ray of a demon’s chest;
The doorbell, a bronze-hog I’ve seen
In a catalogue at my mom’s, plays Bach.