What had once been chanced upon, 

a heavenly gift of supernatural bands 

and poems without parades, 

is now a tomb we cart about

full of rotting clichés

and blows to the head

like a relentless mistake 

that just won’t die.


So we go over the stones 

beside the sea—
black, no matter 
the time of day or season—

past the church, 

the hideous church, 

which reminds me 

that every religion gets dressed before the dawn.