This, a donation I would presume, from the world's
The image of an undriven highway burned into the
One wall without a window;
How long has this room held me now?
From the two lancets there's the broken view of the
Church garden; the oriel sweeps the south side of the city.
Both I've rendered in watercolors numerous times,
And always bequeathed them to the priests come and gone.
Long have I played this-
The kept embarrassment; the staid devil of an unflowing Acheron.
Perhaps it's the interminable scent of ecclesiastical
Candle wax that's got the Moon coming to see me again,
Like some refugee from the original bedlam in heaven,
Stealing into the ribcage of a slain Titan.
This nectarous bouquet, and with it the memories of my
How he'd counted on his Lord not to give me a twin in madness.
Mother had succumbed to the highway.
She'd sacrificed an entire cabinet of fine china to it, the shards
Still there on the carpet when she was taken for care.
She later blamed a Visitation from the attic; I now blame
This same house of God she sought refuge in -
For us two.
Forever and ever the Attic Man, I have only that road to
Travel by mine eyes alone; I'd like to at last gouge them out.
The priests, I know, gift it to me for my "confessions," but it's
That I may sift within for other sins, like a hunt for
Adam and Lilith before the next newborns of the city are-
Priests and little bones are all I've known, and they keep me
On the highway;
Undriven, unflowing -this- the loitering Worm at whose crown
The madness mates with Heaven.
The church garden has been painted still brighter this morn;
That happens there with each newborn's burial.
The Garden of Earthly Delights -- Hieronymus Bosch