How many bees     for this came
 
            to their deaths     how many whores
 
stroking pink candles     with oil
 
            lips blood-bloated     kneel
 
to your grandmother’s     grave
 
            in the gloaming     knead
 
dough with spit     fingers
 
            backwards     Paternosters burn
 
incense and breadcrumbs     make
 
            the men come     even
 
the regal     well-weaned
 
            and rutting     women wanted
 
me     to gift them     signs will he be
 
            grain     of salt     or sea
 
winds lifted     seagulls 
 
            circled     his leg
 
severed     floating a small
 
            boat in the sea     how
 
seldom I told     them what
 
            this world     really tells
 
what flesh     tells bone