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Issue 16, Poesía | August 2015


Violence in a Canonical Hour

–December 11, 2014

A violet floss in the trees and eaves
of an abandoned tudor house,
the burst water pipe of clay
reveals a secret passage for the feint
fetus of lost catholic women, the chapelet
collapsed with fat pink moles in a black nest—

the tall sickly sexton with his jeweler’s loop
surveying a drying white mantis case
on a willow field of aspirin, like us, holy father,
hiding in plain site…

	       the diorama,
the diocese of bishop carnivores,
sextus sacristanus, a dark stairwell
in the back of the old house, where
bins of laundry powders and ammonia jugs
defy the Roman bookkeeping…

wild ghosts of calcium ringing
little silver handbells, light snow
falling in the spruce.

the poor Tibetan holy man turned away—

don’t tell me these vatican lords, in order,
are ever in any way different, one from the other,
kowtowing to banks, medieval valets at Davos,
or the tangerine hipster bookies

			of the fey-red chinese gangsters
			of the short dismay.
Violence in a Canonical Hour