Third Hour

In the third hour an uncoiling

anaconda tongues his wounds and

breeze from the wave of silence

mouths an unction of sound

as the young Jehovah rushes on stage

like some college crasher

and I, holding a lone paper flag

in the windless room, hope

for a movement pointing to its loss

as the absurd indifference to

the simple kiss of the cherubic lips

of a young girl eludes the cosmic

and repulses the brash boy volcano

jolting just enough lava to scorch

trees down the mountainside

and stiffen testicles of

valley villagers irony sings

when callow anaconda bites his

flesh and the cold blood turns

to a stifling hot pus

camouflaging its peeling skin

In all boredom He throws

a lonely oak onto the far bank

of the river and He calls it

today’s miracle

stunned oak shrugs its

shoulders as all its leaves cry

at the scene of egomaniac

bishop who quarters a heretic

curtly and counting a few coins

in his pocket declares:

who cares?