Above the sill, I see your praying hands
Below green, omnificent, almond eyes
Whose blank stare with crimpled, tight-lipped grin
Such that I find no motive to surmise

Still, perfectly still, resting on the sill
I find the chill of your empty gaze, stare
Neither resting nor blinking nor sleeping
Just praying endlessly into the air

‘Til the fly had come slightly buzzing in
Close to the martyr’s incantation
Where by sound alone he spirits away
An answer to his mock meditation

Ingest the meat not grown in the garden
A Bosch of Delights incites the senses
Out of paradise and onto my sill
Where together we chance stolen glimpses


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s