Stand
outside your faith.
Stop peacock strutting
and ram butting.
Tis the season to
study the thousands of I-am iambs
about-face, and the buzzing
extant; cults cutting each other:
no reason, just rant.

What is your judgement ?

Rabbits wrapped in magic
habits numerous,
numinous but misgiven,
circumspect of standing erect:
kneeling to much,
feeling and such,
|dead before living|
the wind from the veil
arrecting melenky hairs;
the fabric lifting: untouched.

You may judge harshly,
—heathen, heretics against heaven,
heresiarchs—, darkly.
As the chronicles of history
[by troth, a pamphlet
drawn up from the edges of rivers
and metallic ages
—dipped from conquistador inkwells, never
tipped by broken quills, those who fell—]
page past sound scrutiny,
even if found lacking

semicolon however comma

once free of the liturgy
sacred, formal;
gods of thunder storming,
naked nymphs transforming,
sky chariots warming:
mountains and volcanoes,
rivers and seas,
the moon and the sun—
physics and phenomenon:
various normal.

Without the shield of myth
circumspection circles
the seared lobes
of the hoodwinked;
condenses and soaks
the desert cracked.
Left.                                 Alone.
In the moment,
the scene green.           Now,
think.
                                          In the beginning . . .

*[ WSB ]_.