I called the lasting of suppers—
 priests who became architects.
Etching beauty out from stretch marks
 that came from the annihilated womb.

That became depths in-between crevasses;
 yr body swerving into formless canyon.
Sing out to the birds, now— they’ll go
 deaf, in a while.

From shattered snakeskins & eulogies
 based in hypocrisy. We’ll
rise, & shiver.
 Lasting silver tongues & apologies.

Because i know from Mary’s prayer that
 when the sun goes down, yr ears
will be filled by mother’s touch
 by the end of the day.
 
And the dying will favour the crimson,
 over the grey.