Bad blood stains my hands
as you chant bad news.
Your eyes are hazel--
or blue--
and they write a hymn
that is a metaphorical
sleepsong that
haunts skulls
that remain fossilized
in the earth
like a personalized genre--
either mythological or Biblical--
and no one sleeps
in fear of immortality
as if religiosity
is an axe to the ribs
mixed with psychology.