Eyes of fetish sweep the sky

and the stars descend

like rivers of silent mercury

on the crucifixion edge

while 99 hours drip away

in a final crusade

that, among so many whispers,

plunges recklessly

without benefit of superstition

and clones the lion's share

of schizophrenic invocations

while we, the naked,

huddle silently in our sanctuary

among the quick and the dead

dreaming butter-colored daydreams

and braiding bones in our hair.