Sobriety is but a memory.
Tiered and teared, rows of pews
Retreat from the altar to the door
And behind the door the world
Crouches below the rows of stone steps
And a rose that rises forth
Climbing to the sun
Is worn in the hair,
The dark blue glowing hair of the world;
A soul singer,
Girlish by the barstool microphone
Breathing spirit onto the coil,
Amplifying the Word.
Her drinks are caught in her throat;
Their taste speaks her tongue.
19 April 1997
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