On a cross, resigned to the half world’s glory,
See him rise, the surrogate son and father.
Carryover prophecy and exquisite
Public relations

Carve the stone below him in clapping darkness.
Still he’ll rise and twist in a cloud-borne transept,
Delegate authority with the whisper—
“Now it is finished.”

Wind-raked hill, the firmament torn and bleeding
In a shell that whistles, a polished vacuum
Holding back the howling of transformation:
Spiritus Sanctus!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: