The priest with the bullet-holes in his fingernails
masturbates behind the pulpit, calling sinners to
come, come, come
to Grace; loving the beauty of God's creations
with all the passion of a man's erected cock.

The woman in the front row sees her dreams
in the gold-leaf candleflames, adjusts the line of her veil
to the aristocracy of an unhappy forehead.
Her silk skirt falls just low enough to hide
the tattoo on the back of her left thigh,
her ancient, recent guilt-stains, her identification
and chain.

Jack and Jill compress awkward, gasping limbs
into the Wendy-house at the playground.
Their clothes are in hasty piles in the mud,
sodden now, as the rain beats time with amusement
to Jill's aching pulse and Jack's fluttering fingers,
enveloping her clitoris and soul,
giving and taking more than either can afford.

One bedraggled crow fluffs its feathers
and huddles silently on the teetering telephone wire
of life.