i dont think i have ever worked on a poem this much before - it taxes

not hymn

i
deafness of one is
not underestimated
to be
by even the most atheistic
apostles &
although debt is a virtue
hanging by log
pined into our wet brains
the sounds i
am
makes when supplication—
a possible answer or
hitting coolly laid
pavement another—
never sums up
the callous silence
of an accident

ii
be a colossus of
parallel
tracks
& or rumble
of prone steel
reminds a bend
some say tunnel
who is truly coming
by
& by
but still remains un—
proven what
lies
ahead

iii
standing up
for several hours &
then kneeling
to taste sour wine
on the sponge
before standing up once
more
maybe the last
all while denying
effort transcends
triumvirate bodies in
the name
of the etcetera


iv
cannot remember face
or fact by calling
out to nameless
robes in vain
to vine
though names were never
necessary
all under breath
of rib
gnostic &
believable
when darkness was
a lovely man
silhouetted by pale
horse &
my mouth rang
with swords

v
on rocks made of skulls
you & i
sit fist-tight
against stubbled chins
waiting
for sheepskin to soak
up what is not there
or never was
some firmament
of voices
choir leering with
their omniscient
bald
beards
only watching to count
pentamerous
mistakes we make
in forgiveness
an act
of refusal to take back
all that is
set into wooden
stone by
cock crow’d motion
in lyrical disconnected
dissonance