by Oisín Rowe
Rolled in gold
leaf, cocooned in
shreddings of ancient
text. His words, a pathetic
stream slurring
out between pulls,
Prophets lust but I beg
you, beg. Lick the good
soil off your lover’s
hand. Taste what the tree
roots know, Bend your
back at lightning snaps.
Submit to the murmurs
of rabbit children.
And God and I smoked until
the vapors chased
the heavens and nothing
dared open the sky.