Seventh Canto
My garments rip clean and
night arrives with fanfare copying
my dreams and wishes in white satin
the lustrous moon slowly ferments
the ripe full wine and
sharpness of ax or
double edged sword unable to reach
the heart of innocence another
invention rises from the well-informed
altar using primeval fear in
horrific brimstone tales
marketing purgatory with fiery
tongues of dragons spitting damnation
bizarre conquests no heathen stone
unturned until the rivers run with
red ballads and the valleys are embalmed in black
hollow garments even though innocence of a first
kiss still mesmerizes a fathom or
a veiled apparition by the name of
Almighty with no mind for Earth
who can’t focus on
His absurd task breeze flips
a book to the next page while
I gaze at old
philosophical Death smiling at
the ladybug in His palm puzzling at its
composure unfolding and folding wings
hopeful slow brook
naive serenity asking
the finest question
to fledgling chickadees in the nest
that ruffle feathers
before sighing
together: we can do better
Libros Libertad 