We Should See Other Blogs

Read redemption on his lips, blood
artesian into the troughs.
Shewbread on fabled linen, you
beg the crumbs that spell his life.

How have the righteous fallen! Seven-
flamed candle torn from his chest
for the lunatic sheep-king;

this his respite from oracle,
from unending plunging metal,
from the distant, trembling bell-fringed
breastplate.

Angels in the brief threnody
played between dagger and flagstone,
but such music. Such music.