Termites ate the holy knee.
A black core is exposed. He still smiles.

Grave old men. So righteous
Their beards curl in symmetry.

Her bright yellow stockings match her earrings.

Swords cut the marble children
As if they were made of butter.

Saints smile or cry. There is not much
Of a difference really. If any.

“But, you know, I had my period and everything.”

Water rises in layers, stripes to hide his feet,
Knees, thighs. He covers himself with his fingers.

Blood streams like glory from his wounds, shines
Through his skull, spears the air with hemoglobin.

There, he says, there is something
About three going on here. She agrees,
Nodding more than twice.

Christ always leans towards his right shoulder,
Be it in wood, ivory or marble. Searching for a solid support.

Like the child in the stroller I see in the afternoon.

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