Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Losing Her Religion

Cram, cram, let the breeders be infidels,
as they always are, anyway. Forever, amen—

In seventeen days Noah shall pass, and boats
big as sunglasses for the Sun won’t moat up
kings’ palaces like cantons insecure from
Wrath. Dust curlicues, unseen, fornicate
with the desert winds devoid of chance, no
one contesting Patriarch Kirill’s samovars.

I was absent for a while, cantankerous as
Mary of Magdala upon lyuelye faythe, the
time passed presenting crocks with myrrh
in Jesus’ tomb. Only to be sacked, shocked
by ambulant quarrels ‘bout an impure womb.
Devotions, lies! Seventeenth day of Passover

month. Cram, cram! The breeders still infidels.
As they always are, now and forever, all men.

No comments:

Post a Comment