The canal flows moldy brass
And the yawning sky is empty and perfect.
Ceci n'est pas une pipe and
This is not a dream.
I've been to see the chocolate shamans
And the trappist priests and they
Have worn striated history smooth
Until every woman is a wingless fairy and
Every man is a mound of mud.
I think I'm getting the plague
Or my knee just aches from pilgrimage
And my conscience twitches from pogrom
And the ugly weed flowers in this
Courtyard are as hard and as lovely as the aging sun.
Within the outsides of these walls
And beneath the circling noisy bird
It is modern medieval excommunication blessing and
For a thousand years someone is watching
And under the weight of that gaze
I know the eyes are my own.
