Thursday, May 09, 2013

We Were Never Converted


And just before the last lapsed Christian finds
Fragments of love in the arena of meanwhile-back-
At-the-shoe-store before Aïda dances seven veils
While Theodora stripped of her bruised nightgown
Sings does he love me or do I love her in a cheap
St Charles hotel room so used to sunlit dirt some call
Hope that even New Orleans could possibly hold
Choices in the matter could drowse the cotton
Warehouse lullaby of soft southern truck talk
Perhaps an ugliness the final pillar of our salvation
Of our dream of another continent of a clean
Death no different than this one right now you say
When I think of it my eyes tear up I want to forget
So I can read it all over again for the first time

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