cathedral of bones

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