Forecast the rhetoric of the dying,
the saints gather in their shiny
cathedrals and gossip on
the year of the dragon and the
fornicating serpents that ring
the tower's bell.
I came from the deserts of Moses
and the swamps of New Orleans.
Chained to the Lord's table,
I stammered a prayer aloud
to Mary more for artistic vision
than begging for mercy.
All too much mathematics and cost efficiency,
not enough dancing souls and circus training.
The barn's burning,
the moon's howling for redemption
from the witness of the past.
Create her just as you want,
watch the fire lick her insides,
separate her from the angels.
She lies under the dirt in the ground,
sorrow swept through me with a smile,
and I laughed to myself.
The man in the corner
looks up from his black coffee
and top hat and just stares.