Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Kissed Under the Moorish Wall


A savior is what the flesh wants
like a door into grace
with rough cheek and rouged brain
the neck of state gapes as it turns a welted face.
A cut ear beneath an umbrella
and jesus, a tenor, a figure between mary and the footlights
taking up the pen and writing the dusk, leaving the heart behind.

And I, Martha, whisper up the evening
and turn the sword toward the wind
steering a word like a hand to the lost

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