I attended an audience with the
Lord,
a
small white robe and zucchetto
floating
on the balcony like a dove.
He
looked at the sea of nuns and veils
heaving
like waves from a Galilee wind,
sun
painting the colonnade the color of clouds.
Latin
syllables flew through Saint Peter’s Square
like
pigeons, landing on Babel’s obelisk and cross.
“What
we need is a song,” said a priest from Budapest.
Snake
played the bass, the tall giraffe on the ‘bone
while
a beast with whiskers lightly scared the snare.
Black
girls in silver sequins snapped and swayed,
background
singers chanting “ooh poo pah doo.”
The
ship lumbered through the Med,
but
the albino could not calm the storm,
did
not walk on water, did not cross the sea
of
eyes looking to the balcony of be.
The
whore of Babylon lit a cigarette,
then
crushed it with a stiletto heel.
The
seven hills of Rome were done,
leveled
by an acid dream of horns and eyes
and
a dragon dressed to the nines in fire.
The
multitude nodded off and fell asleep by one.
~William Hammett
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