Sunday, December 28, 2008


White the plot through pane, trampled
By virgin’s feet the snakeless grass,
Rime in beard and icy teeth: My Crete lies empty.

Nailed and crossed over static phone lines,
Your christmassy voice in the hum. Dumb
Like a lamb I am to Christ, but no stranger

To hubris, the familiar hint of acetone
On the exile of older gods.
Exhaled on this my island of Teflon

You bid me choose between salt and pepper -
If patience then is virtue and wrath is deadly sin,
My revenge will be white.


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