“Isn’t it rich sending in the clowns”
to a cathedral of haunted ghosts
breaking bread with the host
in slow tongue catching hums
through ribcages of the dead
wading through ink of shellfish
chewing psalms
come twilight, when shadows preach
drawn by the moon’s cold cyclops
from the book of Odyessy
biting into the hand of god
where the phantoms came to drink
thinking it was an apple
in a cathedral of haunted ghosts
of fingers tracing geometry
realizing it was the throat…







