Pigeon holes in parkay
Table manners setting Time to
Silvery blades tuning the leather
Strap by the cackling fireplace
Spitting as it speaks,
Slapping his back
Dear God, she rasps
Her dismembered finger
Wavered above the page
The sage thickening the air
To a sack with no end
And no way back
There is no saving the Flesh,
And this, sung
Hung above his ear
Left on the floor
Revelations 3:16
The moon drifts past the door
The Roar of the minister
His arms settling thunder
Shivering burlap wraps
And more buried under
The scepter fern
Burn these pages, she skeets
Between pulled teeth
The rot of breath
Eating its own meat
Creep, the Time and
So her biding
The knots grow, and tighter
The Blessed Unkinding
A rhapsody, not a Hymn
Begun with Amens
Ending with a *****
Soil, and my arms in