“Hope is a cruel god,”

Said the sage to the laurel,

Knowing that the words would poison the ground

Make septic the dirt and spread

The red secret to the yews.

-

Your plastic wrapper incarcerates

Six tiny flavors,

An evening rose whore who

Defecates in washing machines

(which is, apparently,

A kind of art in an of itself).

-

Do you have

The right approach? The one

To get you past the thick gothic doors

And into the chapel, the core;

Have ye your cares.

Have ye your septic solitude:

Incense, choir, and bells.