Somewhere on the darkened dust on
Which slid the serpent Lord
I craned my neck between the tax
Collections to see:
Rough hewn bouts of wood
And groves of man-made trees,
Pirouettes against the fleshy sky.
As punctuation for the
Still-life dance it cooed from each
Performer cries of ecstasy.
I had not met the sacrament
Of honesty ’til then, that moment
As my hands skipped among denarii
And willful hair dropped loose
Against my pasty brow.
You owe me five-and-twenty, see;
Before the sun and curtain set.