Sacraments On A Cold July Morning

The chess pieces
Reflect gray. There
Is nothing else about
That: the laundry
Room is
Warmer except
Where the
Window is open and
Rushing streams of
Freezing summer
Wind.

There should be something
French in all of
This but I have
Yet to find
It.

Flags twisted
One-side leaves
Are moths
Stuck to burnt-
Over candle
Wicks; into sliced
Hundredths,
The screen door
Hurts sky

(My brother
Is by the
Ocean. He tried to
Tell me misspellings
Make poetry. He
Always took in unbridled
Chaos)

A blackbird
Breaks silences like
Bread. The kitchen is
A confessional, sacraments
And the mummies of
Saints in glass cases:
I am an
Ulster Protestant.

Ah,
Pass the wine it is flavored with rain and no-body's blood