The buttery moon
melts down the opaque nape
of Mary; another celestial
soul

in need of cerebral Penicillin.

Heresy scours a host. Virtue
converts. White cells try
to baptize. Baptize. Beneath
the inflammation, there leaks
infection--blanched sin,
wheezing candles for those bones,
halitosis in her

words--the buttery moon sours.


INJECTION III

The saddened moon curdles. It drips
disheartened rays
light like little syringes. He rings

from moths like mouths, He beckons
through street lamp eyes, ‘Please,
drink once more’.

Drink






once



more.