Naked. Bread and wine laid out.
olden-time coin stacked neatly
in a struggling pile.
The fan’s pulsing shadows keep
bow-string time as lower chords
sow the whole divine plan together -
out the window, down the long
Via Garibaldi, plunge through streets,
twisted markets, stunted lanes and
nameless bridges - urgent seeking
thrusting
some repose
the fan brings you back, striking
at first in its fits and inducing
haze (like something in your eyes
is broke)
incapacitated, solid, melted chords
drip off the speakers, seep into your
ears
Help him, he must hurt so
How does he transcribe it all –
ah that chord
such agony
such pain
layers build chasm
mine
tears
the soft hum of the fan as
the end slides near, why
where, crucified
as, father.
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