| his sleeves dirty from favor |
| his hair wild as desert brush |
| his scent fermented to perfume |
|
| and his skull brimming with
beatific faces, |
| pitchfork holocausts, a weeping
serpent |
| whispering died for you. |
|
| So much more than the orderly
adorned |
| smiling peace but edging down
the pew, |
| super polite by unlooking, none
willing to, |
|
| save a high stained glassy face
who knew |
| something of honeyed locust,
immersing rivers |
| and how woolly Love can be.
|