The man's random hands gripped the gull. Its heart
Scrabbled at solidifying air;
Wanted, at least, to fly into its death.
Trees have been infected by Mandelbrot.
Unshakeable - with boughs no sins could bow -
That God-like tree now sheds its mystery.
Work consumes the flesh our bodies make from bread.
Everything is transubstantiation.
And every bit of food and drink, He said,
Will be His flesh if we remember Him.
The air thickens around me.
Forgive me for breaking the silence.
My desire is what I do not deserve.
My heart is a bird held in that man’s hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment