Bare down onto the purple stones of dew,

It grinds against the guns and the violence less had

over a 20 year period from whence it came;

A prism scatters a rainbow buckshot and blisters

Church windows in the wake of a Pinwheel's swivel.

The banging

        banging

        banging

of shadowy St. Therese

        --sacred eyes begging me to leave--

glaring on at the gilding of several ugly Americans; Nazis

and Christians; all

engraved in something akin to humanity.

Flaming pillows of white wax pool the masses

into worship and praise.

The Flowing Cup hangs on a pedestal of a broken sword,

Keys to no room and a hooded figure

which means--

I lack the command for it

as my mother,

Softly slipping her hands into warm water,

Bares the sign of the cross.