As priests incant their tribal lore,
Atop mounds piled eons before,
Who spill blood down in decanting fashion,
Where saintbound ushers bring cups to the feet,
And pray for the apex to do excrete,
Gashes of a virgin pierced passion,
And collect abstinent pour,
All but the wind refraining,
Cutting through autumn’s crush,
Harvest leaves wrestle,
A trawl left consecrating,
To the masses on the surface,
In pin-mind debating,
“If there were solace above us”
Like junebugs in a lantern-lit thrill,
The itch of mine is the itch to kill,
And hide the benign from my actions which bore,
The tide back upon her shore,
Vessels spill the fresh wine drained,
from the foot of the creek, past the lane,
Meeting the head of Lexington’s fame:
Her jagged pebble shore,
Factitious ceremonies are what take,
In a summer sun’s sweltering hate:
Her crystal water lies unquaked,
‘Til her bounty raises the floor,
So when priests return to autumn mound,
Lay sanctimony upon the ground,
Return in roaring silence I pound,
The scarlet sounds of water’s gore.
