Blood Vessels Filled with
Something like Crucified Hydrogen
The tree put up its barren limbs, the church
Its barren cross, a duet set in gray—
The branches notes, the cross a chord in search
Of something certain; well, more certain, say,
Than London clouds. Elaborate, the gold
(Well, gilded) patterning on the Christless
Symbol held no more meaning than the tolled
Nighttime parish bells above a trystless
City park no longer haunted by guys
Vacantly questing for meaningless sex
Like addict needles impaling unwise
Veins listlessly. The clouds have set their hex.
The golden spike-like shape thrust through the cross
….Insinuates that sky-held things are dross.