how cursory the mind of a saint goes
from caring to devil's tasks
the poet basks in words of fleshlike tone
while the preacher tomes of sin
on a pulpit robed in black
with a winged angel under his foot
a barefoot tinge
of an odalisque
a mosque cringes the divine temple sways
as the condemned say
thou shalt not
and traffic goes on by past faster
than a
wink a touch of an eyelid
to the cheek
of a doll
sacred water
sheds a teardrop
down her thigh
and god blesses
those who sign