ALT The Pitch All oily-gods offer heaven as part of the package. The best lure, out of focus, a hazy conversion, with the scent of a softening balm a sickly aroma but one that draws in, the “come, come leave the You, be part of this bigger thing” a teeter, a fall from that ungrippable wall, the minuscule splash, perhaps a few strokes in the dissolving, welcoming wash giddy, still doused with the sweet incense of nectar, not noticing the charlatan’s hands, the sotto voce whispers eager to help, gently disrobing the Self. Call it an oblation, or a shedding of cares, trust in the arms of a confidante; the pitcher plant shrugs and sups, both it and the insect get what they think they want.