Jun 25 2016

My garbage can observes a paradigm

filled through the night and emptied at the dawn,

lined up in some forgotten hall of time,

moved short and back, as if a timid pawn.

Too scared to move, so certain of the end,

aware someone with bombs thinks it’s a game.

I move my pawn; my spirits all descend.

I take it back; the Christ consumes my shame.

We all imbibe the poison, less than me.

The truth affords us anguish for its cost

while total absolution comes for free.

Acrid or sweet? Drink either, and be lost.

When God and scientists do not agree,

my Mass observes the source of gravity.


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