Stone burns to ash
grows perfect in my mouth
turns to ink when I ask
of another
man’s foundation if, with
these hands, I can build for
my jealous god
a tabernacle on
his ruined home’s hallowed
ground, if it moves

                    him, if the sound
of thunder clapping stirs
into his wounds more dirt
blood at the roots
words climbing my throat, forks
of lightning thrown out by
new ideas
cutting down the old, men
fighting with broken swords
what chokes their flow

                    rivers prayers fill
pills poor spirits swallow
beards of winter sent here
to braid with veins
of snow open secrets
keeping silent those who
know, those sages
who meet at a crossroads
on Sanguinaria
festive and pressed

                    whining flesh tears
sweat and caress as if
offering dew, he can
remove from this
tomb my heart no one else
not even he whose art
with sacred touch
first made it blush, has wooed
to bursting, on this spot
love wrestles lust.