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Poem

Three hours suppressed before breaching the tight-lipped 
container left neatly wrapped in homogenous foam 
and smoky demeanor. Its lid caved in, having been tapped.

Through misspoken holes sprung arcadian visions, 
lacking Peloponnese disposition, still semi-smoldering 
with the tinder touch of Hephaestus extracted from 

less subtle artistry attributed Zeus, high up on his steed, 
bare-chested. Arms crossed.
How he used to look down on we mortals, wee, buttressed 

by oxygen, in two-
parts hydrogen, one-part dioxide.
But this was real, not some Florescent church.

Outside the perimeter lay black stacks of texts I had gradually 
gathered through time’s non-existence, way back when time 
weighed as factual matter.  Of course they still mattered.

Yet, I chose them to lay there, bathed in the soot of three daughters
I failed to veil.  What do you say, Rita Dove?  to wear
my white-skinned daughters spun lesser as still lovelier silk?

Is there anything clumsier to misappropriate than weather-vane hate, 
with its gallant gait, with its augmented pigmentation,
when there’s no room in storage?

A grey-haired protestant behind me prayed;

“Oh, Thank God!  
 Oh! Thank God”

He praised through my bedroom window’s socket, shocked to shatter
by fire, fresh come splattered beard.  I had not known him prior, this man I would learn was a fair-weather friar.  So; I blew him a kiss.  

But in my eyes,
he saw an unwell wish, so;

                                                            It needs to be done with this.

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