STATE OF GRACE

Et lux perpetua luceat eis
Slurping in the thick skin
waiting patiently parting ways
then opening doors, some of
frustration some just tick tock
against the old state of grace,
falling out of sight just so
encrusted…stretched
not made made for anything
but dead weight…hope robs
the petty nascent searchers, ever
scouring the black lands of time
shifting weight one foot then the other,
a soup of sideways glances, dirty gestures,
practiced scorn and desperate measures.
Blue-veined penitents touch the saint’s robes,
glimmering in ethereal tableau, at the
forehead a crown of light that pricks
and torches, we are statues that break
heavy air and time travel – legs up,
in full make-up,
sensual deviants with brittle bones. Ages pass.
Our faces are still here, awaiting pleasure.
Photography. The chisel and the mirror.
That beast that came with his twenty arms,
how he blessed us – he ate everything
we could think of, perhaps night, perhaps
the living stars. Cold-cocked.
With extreme pallor, we pose immaculately
(yet dead)
drinking in the conquests of those seeking teeth.

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