before an altar of miniscule objects: supine the shrunken dialogue created a more exact fit; calm faces belying none of the contemporary contempt the silent kindness making beliefs something worth worshipping we are Solomon’s wives doves hiding in the fractures of the mountains we are the voices ruining the blooming vineyards we are the pomegranates with our red jewel teeth crouching in the corners we invite disaster inside on tremulous wings with wonderful blue eyes of immense tragedy waiting for a violation, for emotional significance while the lovers with their mouths of wine and spice with their hips of wheat and marbled skin tremble in decadent fever and swim through the heady delirium the metamorphosis volatile with anticipatory veins indecisive conduits waiting for a precise chemical sequence to seize jurisdiction over the Great Savior of Souls who will flood the chambers of your heart and the endgames of your mind will stand empty while the church bells peal in the background we’ll burn, an Inferno of intellect and someone next to me will recite the writing on the inside of their eyelids and the seduction of the afterlife will continue as we coax it onto television screens we are idioms, graceless errors given to wild misinterpretation blind and drenched in perfume flaring up and stumbling through the night waiting for the summoning arcing strands and crushed flowers blurring between our knees beauty cannot masquerade in front of this misfortune