Tuesday, April 28, 2009

The Bishop

He sits alone puffed and proper
in his furry vestments.
The mitered hat splayed
looms large, then wilts 
cock-eyed upon
a spoken prayer or curse.

The bulging bead of eyes
see through the nothingness
in a reverie, not shared.

Slow stealth leads
in progression through shadow,
confidence soars air born
to the heavens, turning
quickly to wait the watch.

Grounded and cloven
the tiny hands fold in meditation.
Mighty legs are hidden
beneath the fold.

A kissing to the flawless face,
wiping sweat in sacred wash
to whiskers invisible.

Nose in nervous twitch,
wrinkles for the May Queen,
who giggles girlishly
to the yawning stretch.

A coney consecration
waxes wan...
complete in sphinx composure,
trumpeting silently
in hierophant contentment. 

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