A little red bird
Drags a beaded yellow thread of blood
Across a sullen sky
And comes to sleep, a crumpled shape
Upon the murky water draped across the stone canal.
I feel the icy touch of guilt
Like spilt red wine inside the glass case of my mind
Because I feel it is banal
To watch the stain of ****** seep like nicotine across the flag;
Because I am serene
Upon my nails is drawn the verdant green of moss
And blood that goaded from beneath a cross;
And now it sinks below the water of the stone canal
And suddenly there is no guilt
Though one worm-ridden bird floats down to rest amongst the silt.