, , ,

his hand hits behind the lagoon

where the bench waits for it’s master

his aunts watching the maestro swoon,

but he knows that his ideas are disaster

and infidelity is a way to crumbling cliffs

and ugly inferno’s carved in plaster.

The surrounding children are the Pontiff’s

and twisted faces make twisted graces.

His uncles virtuous on Lenten skiffs,

fasting their locations to arrive in places,

humming, together, a monetary tune

about spices and explosive vases