What if it were true?

the disequilibrium of drunken soothsaying

untethers its audience; to the hearing

there is nothing but silence, long drawn-out

cadenza underscored with incision

a deaf-man’s inheritance; who

are the shadows, here, who stand leagues off,

gnawing at our shirtsleeves? Should

we call to them, Now, our half-sisters

in purgatory? With prayers

we may ease their suffering; or are we

too late? Diamond-back

adjudicators

of some forgotten Statute have come to us

hungering for absolution – are

they worthy?

(are we?)

the populace shifts and grins;

we are only unholy

in this our Circus Ground –

we come to fruition as a daily rite

our days ignited with our morning light --