Have-beens went into fury.
Like silkworms, after the shock
spinning the myths around them.

Then the gossip will turn towards
the words, locked in extra
sensory awakening.

The gametes move in a chasm,
needling the pastoral scorn.
From the barrel of a gun flows the religion.

Spreading the thighs and baking
the sweet croissants. Will the honey
heal the wounds?

Of centuries? Moon god to moon god
under the swaying palms
man still cannot bring the house in order.