The old savior has lost his flavor.
Somewhere, he drags his life alone along a lakeshore.

Daybreak coughs on the red rim of the mountain; ash
is cool in the fire pits. 

Stumble:
through the gates, my vision on you (by the Elephant tree)
but my footsteps

are driven underground by a slab of sky;
my shoulder is dark bruise
blue.

My skeleton book:
in your fingers, you tear pages from my throat, the sound
rips the morning in two.

When Pilate washed his hands, you ran like rivers into lakes
and your rebirth came too late to seize me.

My stomach hosts a mob of slaves, my creeds
are lashed around my chest.

My principles are captive birds, jumpy
colorful, restless, noisy

and from their cage believe that they too
are ready to be free.

This piece first appeared in Prime Number Magazine, June 2011.