takes its hearts
With arrows dipped in
acetylene
To inflame the pilgrims
with longing
That they themselves
can be set aside
For the iconographies
of fashion,
What earned the rites of peace
in surrender.
The purple robe flung over
the shoulders of the frame
Constitutes an impermissible pearl
hung with a name
That ravages the non-believers
in themselves,
A black that grows
with every motion,
For the song is never right,
the suit too sourly tight,
The light too obscure for
illuminating nights
Left to our own devises
without device.
The agency concocts the sunrise
in our minds
Each year, day, season,
for every discrete reason,
Careering as the cosmos
locks its gems.
You will not handle them today.
Your longing
Must persist.
