State of Grace

Et lux perpetua luceat eis
Slurping in the thick skin
waiting patiently parting ways,
opening doors, some just tick tock
against the old state of grace,
not made made for anything
but dead weight…
scouring the blasted reaches
shifting one foot then the other,
a soup of
practiced scorn and desperate measures.
Blue-veined penitents touch the saint’s robes,
glimmering ethereal tableau, at the
forehead a crown of light that pricks and torches,
statues breaking
heavy air
in time-travel: legs up,
in full make-up,
sensual deviants with brittle bones.  Ages pass.
The faces still here, awaiting pleasure.
Photography.  The chisel and the mirror.
The beast with his twenty arms,
how he blessed us – eating everything
we could think of, even our living stars,
the armor of myth.  Cold-cocked.
With extreme pallor, posing in good grace,
(yet dead)
drinking the conquests of those seeking teeth.

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