Palm Sunday

what lies
at the
           bottom
of the
          bottom
less pit

the kernel of
truth
that is every
cliché
           or
is there
             merely
darkness

along the edge
she walks
circuits ever
widening
circuits ever
closing,
she watches
she waits
for the green
the promised
Green
to rise from
                     under
the Black

but on each
turn there remains
only
      Grey
only
       Smoke
only
        Cinder

even the
Yucca
the invincible
Yucca
are fallen,
stripped and flayed,
their flaking fronds too
charred even for
Black

stop
bend
touch
         slice
the skin,
         cross
the too-long
Line of Life,
         cleave
its fork with
fingers dipped
      Indigo
to
     Carmine
         then
back
         again

and suddenly
she knows
she knows
she
      knows
what lies
at the
          bottom
of the
       bottom
less pit,

at the
          bottom
of the
          bottom
less pit,
there is
        simply
More
        just
More
        only
More

The Wrecked
The Torn
The Mangled,

their
branded faces,
their
stigmatic palms
turned up
turned up
turned
             Up
crying

for release

©s rogers 23 march 2011

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