In naked bitterness
all strangled dreams lie
like wings ripped from
an angel’s shoulder, icy,
slim as a sword.
The floor is
hideous that binds us to
reality, to the leopard and
the scorpion, unto the
Each bedmate is
sick with isolation,
reaching across the insipid night
to coin his wounds and lie for
God is lost in the morass of hurt,
and each oracle is a trick
that consoles for a minute
then purges the heart of hope.
with food, with the purchase of a passion
from the local convenience store.
Our thirst is a dreadful ooze,
like lust, it kills though itself never dies.
We cling to the scorching seed,
pray for grace through a tired eye.
The Irish clover droops,
and from the quiet fields, soldiers carry
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