Breachborn

Morphine falls and anchors rain, while light undergirds the great trance
We would not bend with such buckling pains if we didn’t have atoms in our pants
The shades of sorrow, aclashed with airs soft, that darkness which comes like an alien
eternally crippled, with bone fingers crossed, aware that our guilt goes on sailing
We dry-weep for Heaven, too leprous to touch, yet despising those waters which mend us
We’d go down to Jordan, if He’d heal just so much, but our sentiments know “that’s stupendous!”
So we color the earth with the evil we’ve seen, like honeybees spreading sad treasure
Afraid of the King, we prefer-prop a queen, all in hopes to be punished less measure
And every minute the cloudstreams call out, up there where that wind is descending
and we hope to God we’ll survive the rinse out, with our one precious wound still defending

