The bathroom faucet drips hurried footsteps,
carrying him back to dappled wood buried
in repeated dreams: a brushed ritual
circle hasty ringed by displaced logs, bark bit
by lichens; their sacrilege tools — hammer's
rotted-wood grip, nails with rusty shafts — littered
about a stump-altar where brothers met,
made not-so-secret sacrifice, to abash
their god; still suffering toad, random
picked to endure this mock passion play ending
on cross-tied twigs. Its yet resurrected
eyes stare at him, ask simple but damning "why?"
No Samaritan, good or bad, among
pretend Romans, ever stayed their hands to help.
Sep 19, 2009
Sep 19, 2009 at 8:48 AM UTC
The bathroom faucet drips hurried footsteps,
carrying him back to dappled wood buried
in repeated dreams: a brushed ritual
circle hasty ringed by displaced logs, bark bit
by lichens; their sacrilege tools — hammer's
rotted-wood grip, nails with rusty shafts — littered
about a stump-altar where brothers met,
made not-so-secret sacrifice, to abash
their god; still suffering toad, random
picked to endure this mock passion play ending
on cross-tied twigs. Its yet resurrected
eyes stare at him, ask simple but damning "why?"
No Samaritan, good or bad, among
pretend Romans, ever stayed their hands to help.
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