his sleeves dirty from favour
his hair wild as desert brush
his scent fermented to perfume

and his skull brimming with beatific faces,
pitchfork holocausts, a weeping serpent
whispering died for you.

So much more than the orderly adorned
smiling peace but edging down the pew,
super polite by unlooking, none willing to,

save a high stained glassy face who knew
something of honeyed locust, immersing rivers
and how woolly Love can be.