kurtiss.org | giving is receiving

past these paling gates
where vines grow, now
thick as paste. there is no
grace in her ascent.

a toothless warrior crowns with cardboard
and souls alight from treachery

past these empty streets
when gold meant something,
now tossing jaundiced hue.
subtract that from forever.

a dirty mob chants garbage, garbage.
there, smoldering particles, ingested.

her heaven is on fire
but it doesn’t burn her, no.
this vision needs forgiven, but
no one’s left to do it

these aren’t the understudies
or evil hosts now glorified,
but a shining,
blotted with fiery trash,

hurled against these sticky walls of mystery.

celebrated in layers, and
made painfully okay, six times.
the seventh and beyond are habit.

her heaven is on fire
and i’m no first responder, no.
but a heart to stay her,
if she wills it, will you?

there will be no grace in our ascent, but
some resonance muted, thick as paste.

because pain spits and mystery swallows
until miracle birth of beulah breaks
a new crown of water on our heads