D. B. DEVILLIERS

a pretty picture drawn on rawhide
bloodybacked on the reverse
and you should see the wall behind it.

the wall says: hi! I am the wall. I hold up
the roof. and the roof says: hi! I am
the roof. I hold up the sky. or I hold it back
rather. don’t want to face the sky
without my intercession. eye of god
won’t look kindly on the things that
happen here, no sir, I am the
roof. I shield you from unblinking
brother sun, unyielding, and the little stars
who chitter away his absent hours
called away on business to the
very ends of chistendom. so exposed, each and
every nocturnal
indiscretion better
left unseen, they’d see
(and many! you’ve enjoyed
haven’t you)
how they talk
how they like to
watch—an indiscretion perhaps
of their own

they would go to him in whispers, covering
coy little smiles, knowing he’ll
stove down the firmament, final dawn
stars all, moon, the first man
samson’s temple won’t bow for you, nor I,
they tied him with twine and he
won’t even try. eve not hungry this morning
nor jonah’s whale—he swam untroubled
and on His palms the largest legionnaire in judea
swung his sledge and broke nail
after nail
after
nail.