what the dogs taste
is the meat of jesus christ
and they spit it out
what the junkies do is beg
but there is no room for symbolism
down these empty streets
in the first purple light of five a.m.
children are dying everywhere
and the thought i hang onto
is that my son isn't one of them
i have taught myself
the politics of fatherhood
after fifteen years spent trying
to escape the idea of
the boy i was
i have built a cathedral
of human bones
of meaningless words and angry voices
and there is nothing left to put in it
there is nothing to see
from the windows
but the flat white smudge of the sun
spilling across november fields
beyond the fields are
the factories
where nothing is made
where the dogs grow hungry
in the glow of the neon cross
and home is
where you find yourself
when there's no place else
to run
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