The Venial Soul-stains
What stars let fall their spears?
What rivers coughed up their blood
as the last song of the last swan
choked to her throat?
Why did sparrows stab a stark staccato
toccata on static phone wires, now
stilled in the chill of excommunication?
What moon's shine fingered me
with her accusing sheen
across the still sea's surface?
Yet, whence these bruises on my spirit?
For in what strained theology can
souls be streamed with venial lines?
And what sinews may stretch, there,
taut as a bow spring?
Night sky cries now for her missing moon -
the lunar loss in a sorely mist too soon.
Never more can I ever go
to the land where virtual computer trees grow
with concreted hills and slag-heap skies
that slice abominations through my eyes!