Timepiece

St. Catherine left the market place in such a tawdry coloring
Because of what St. Joseph said about the actual lowering
Of London bridge on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day in the morning
While virgins slept in dreams askew by tides and slowly waiting
For torturing to be performed by dwarves with breath abating
While priests and bishops cast their lots with hypocrites who worship
In homes of the lost and I’ll repute with Helen and Mary waiting
For the giant lads in the blacksmith shop who’ve just left to go skating
In Harold’s square where love abounds and black folks go for meetings
To exercise their right to grow. Where the sickly go for healing.
Where lovers lost in pity of self are brought for their appealing
Of God and all his holy ghosts and the thief who did no stealing.

By rights, the serpent’s head was mine. I cut it from his body.
But lately ‘true love’s’ memory has left my dreams so bloody
I’ve lost my love and loved my loss, those memories to worship.
I’ve sold my soul a thousand times to creatures less appealing.
I’ve caught myself in dreamless sleep and found my body kneeling
In cathedrals made sturdy by an inner strength I find I’m sorely lacking.
For although I’ve been paid in full, I find that life’s a moment
To which my body is enslaved forever…until that moment’s over.