"The goal of writing is to keep a beleaguered line of understanding which has movement from breaking down and becoming a hole into which we sink decoratively to rest."
Parallel Myth
We were like Roman soldiers
Divvying up Jesus cloak.
Dads dead.
We enter the tomb
Of the basement; an eye
For an eye.
We could never in life
Gouge his hateful stares
As he had done to our unfolding eyes.
Now we toss no bones.
Like starved dingoes
Going for the blood of his materials.
Electrical cords lead
To sanders and scroll saws. Bits
To a hand drill, hammer and nails.
It was not enough those tools
They could never construct
A resurrection to speak of.
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