Ode to the Sixth

There lies in the table
a cloth stained with secrets
and hushed whispers soaked in guilt
barely aware of the hand — two hands longing
to clean and preen
and eulogize its soul with every swing
of the pendulum and sand grain falling.
Such clean and pristine hands they were
until the palms opened
and the crows flew out
and the bones came tumbling forth
as the sin writ in blood was
illuminated by the ambivalent sun revealing
the sin of emptiness
wrought by envy and faulty.
phony sentiments. Compliments
i send to misery in silence
Bon Jour I say
to the tumult of disclosure…

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