—carols of lambs rise on the fetal curls
wafting shadows of incense to the nave
where weathered rafters insulate patinas
of sweet ash from the outer winter night
thin coils echo a lyric ecstasy
that lures us from the innocence of sin
to the stillbirth of a miracle on lips
drying like mucus in the milk of souls
browsing stained-glass to scrutinize seduction
the prodigal left us poor—poor pomp poor faith
a lord of lords a king of kings a devil a god a man
hands fold in delicate arthritic prayer
—kiss—kiss! the simple-poor—inheriting
a famine snow sown on a lucid field
