I told them, but no one pressed me for details
so now they must eviscerate a lily white dove
and read it’s torn out entrails
to find what the sacred word might have been.
Summertime is a war you cannot win.
The poison in a plain tin cup, the Grail of Christ,
lost in the back of a Romanian cab on New Years Day,
the blood turned bitter in the biggest, most egotistical heist
that turned halo’s into the collar of the killing chair.
To speak her name, I don’t dare.
Nightmares give comfort by telling my heart it works and is broken.
The wings that drip blood never mind the angelic frost on a little girl’s window,
on a crooked street, on the most perfect winter morn, in a slum in Hoboken.
Cigarettes are mother’s demarking of days into nights into weeks
and even The Devil trembles with fear, when her slurred mouth speaks.