A Burnt Sacrifice of Leaves

Sit alone on a sunny afternoon, in a rusting swing,

               Trying to find that soft voice, that one sweet thing.

 

               This playground’s seen better days, made closed off.

               A burnt sacrifice of leaves refused, God is still wroth.

 

               Kristen is coming on her motorbike; we’ll get a beer.

               Want she wants, what I need, is never at all been clear.

 

               Kristen may go to Paris; can Skype with Thai boyfriend.

               I cannot touch her face with her close, screen’s no end.

 

               God is silent, but I feel his displeasure, his impatient vice.

               The nagging itch in long shed skin his rhetorical device.

 

               I hear Kristen coming, howling motors, fear and dread.

               To be happy and pure all affection must be left unsaid.

 

              

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