a self forsaken son bleeds in his bed,
broken angels dangle from debarked trees,
paper-maiche sisters swallow pulped spleens,

fathers scream rosaries at the undead,
mothers carve their flesh with unanswered pleas,
Christ choking on a candied apple preens.

I push aside the cataclysmic gloom,
drink moonbeam light from the white river spume,
mock the snake bit reverend who forecasts doom,
and tap my shoes atop this nation’s tomb.