Who fell asleep in
her headphones plugged into
Abalone shells
a repeating sequence of ocean swells
on this frequency, smoke signals--
Don't touch that dial
While the land-locked
pulpit-boy's preaching denial;
Push up that skirt,
fashioned out of swans' feathers scattered
over the parson's house
It's hallowed ground you're jumbled upon
bleeding out oceans on the parish lawn.