"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.