from A Dearth of Prose
In bloody fingertips
willows of light bend a tune
and discourse true fables over lunch.
In a spire's cedar beams
hollow wrists fill hungry trees
and dead bones of agony
that writhe in the discourse of worms
and eat blood and bread
that become sinew and flesh.
"Savior, like a shepherd lead us"
down gamboling ways
in our being
at lost in your being.
In the flagrant passion of the Romans
and the flagrant passion of the Christ
are the Pleiades at length bound
with the cat's nine tails
in the heady bliss of gone Eden.
My cousin Angela has a child
plays by the waterways
"O child child the hungry stream!"
and the byways know me,
"they fly, forgotten as a dream"
but Jerusalem, your cobras babe-kissed
Jerusalem, your sands upmixed
with the incarnate IMMORTAL
in the temple of his being.
His side and wrists
are the blister balm of the penitentiary
and the birth of yellow nebulae
and the grand reopening of it all.